THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Ada  Nisbet 


ENGLISH  READING  ROOM 


JUL171986 


LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 


THE 


LAST  OF  THE  BARONS 


BY 

EDWARD  BULWER  (LYTTON 

(LORD    LYTTON) 


NEW   YORK 

THE   CASSELL   PUBLISHING  CO. 
31  EAST  i7TH  ST.  (UNION  SQUARE) 


THE  MERSHON  COMPANY  PRESS, 
RAH  WAY,   N.  J. 


DEDICATORY  EPISTLE. 


I  DEDICATE  to  you,  my  indulgent  Critic  and  long-tried  Friend,  the  work 
which  owes  its  origin  to  your  suggestion.  Long  since,  you  urged  me  to 
attempt  a  fiction  which  might  borrow  its  characters  from  our  own  records, 
and  serve  to  illustrate  some  of  those  truths  which  History  is  too  often  com- 
pelled to  leave  to  the  tale-teller,  the  dramatist,  and  the  poet.  _Uju.q_uej5tj,on- 
ably,  Fiction,  when  aspiring  to  something  higher  than  mere  romance,  does 
in;t  pervert,  lut  elucidate  Facts.  lie  who  employs  it  worthily  must,  like  a 
Mograplier,  study  the  time  and  the  characters  he  selects,  with  a  minute  and 
earnest  diligence  which  the  gen  era},  historian,  whose  range  extends  over  cen- 
turies, can  scarcely  be  expected  to  bestow  upon  the  things  and  the  men  of  a 
single  epoch  ;  his  descriptions  should  fill  up  with  color  and  detail  the  cold 
outlines  of  the  rapid  chronicler  ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  been  argued 
by  pseuHo-critics,  the  very  fancy  which  urged  and  animated  his  theme 
should  necessarily  tend  to  increase  the  reader's  practical  and  familiar  ac- 
quaintance with  the  habits,  the  motives,  and  the  modes  of  thought,  which 
constitute  the  true  idiosyncrasy  of  an  age.  More  than  all,  to  Fiction  is  per- 
mitted that  liberal  use  of  analogical  hypothesis  which  is  denied  to  History, 
and  which,  if  sobered  by  research,  and  enlightened  by  that  knowledge  of 
mankind  (without  which  Fiction  can  neither  harm  nor  profit,  for  it  becomes 
unreadable),  tends  to  clear  up  much  that  were  otherwise  obscure,  and  to  ; 
solve  the  disputes  and  difficulties  of  contradictory  evidence  by  the  philosophy  ( 
of  the  human  heart. 

My  own  impression  of  the  greatness  of  the  labor  to  which  you  invited  me, 
made  me  the  more  diffident  of  success,  inasmuch  as  the  field  of  English  his- 
torical fiction  had  been  so  amply  cultivated  not  only  by  the  most  brilliant  of 
our  many  glorious  novelists,  but  by  later  writers  of  high  and  merited  reputa- 
tion. But  however  the  annals  of  our  history  have  been  exhausted  by  the 
industry  of  Romance,  the  subject  you  finally  pressed  on  my  choice  is  unques- 
tionably one  which,  whether  in  the  delineation  of  character,  the  expression 
of  passion,  or  the  suggestion  of  historical  truths,  can  hardly  fail  to  direct  the 
novelist  to  paths  wholly  untrodden  by  his  predecessors  in  the  Land  of 
Fiction. 

Encouraged  by  you,  I  commenced  my  task — encouraged  by  you,  I  venture, 
on  concluding  it,  to  believe  that,  despite  the  partial  adoption  of  that  estab- 
lished conijiroini-e  between  the  modern  and  the  elder  diction,  which  Sir 
Walter  Scott  so  artistically  improved  from  the  more  rugged  phraseology 
employed  by  Strutt,  and  which  later  writers  have  perhaps  somewhat  over- 
hackneyed,  I  may  yet  have  avoided  all  material  trespass  upon  ground  which 
others  have  already  redeemed  from  the  waste.  Whatever  the  produce  of  the 
soil  I  have  selected,  I  claim,  at  least,  to  have  cleared  it  with  my  own  labor, 
and  ploughed  it  with  my  own  heifer. 

The  reign  of  Edward  IV.  is  in  itself  suggestive  of  new  considerations  and 


fy  DEDICATORY      EPISTLE. 

unexhausted  interest  to  those  who  accurately  regard  it.  Then  commenced 
the  policy  consummated  by  Henry  VII. ;  then  were  broken  up  the  great  ele- 
ments of  the  old  feudal  order  ;  a  new  Nobility  was  called  into  power,  to  aid 
the  growing  Middle  Class  in  its  struggles  with  the  ancient  :  and  in  the  fate 
of  the  hero  of  the  age,  Richard  Nevile,  Earl  of  Warwick,  popularly  called  (he 
King-maker,  "  the  greatest  as  well  as  the  last  of  those  mighty  Barons  who 
formerly  overawed  the  Crown,"*  was  involved  the  very  piinciple  of  our 
existing  civilization.  It  adds  to  the  wide  scope  of  !•  ktiou,  which  ever  loves 
lo  e\i>loie  the  twilight,  unit,  us  Iliinic  has  truly  observed — "No  part  of 
English  history  since  ilie  Conqur-t  is  MI  obscure,  .so  uncertain,  so  little 
auihen  ic  or  consistent,  as  that  of  the  Wars  between  the  two  Roses."  f  It 
adds  also  to  the  importance  of  that  conjectural  research  in  which  Fiction 
in. iy  he  made  so  interesting  and  so  useful,  Ihut  —  "this  piofound  d  irkness 
falls  upon  us  just  on  the  eve  of  the  restoration  of  letters  ';  J  while,  amidst 
the  gloom,  we  perceive  the  movement  of  those  great  and  heroic  passions  in 
win  h  Fiction  finds  delineations  everlastwgly- new,  and  are  brought  in  con- 
tact v,  i:h  >h.\r.uters  sulheicn  ly  funiilhr  for  int<  n  st,  sufficiently  u  mote  for 
adaptation  to  romance,  and,  above  all,  so  fr  quently  obscured  by  contra- 
dictory evid-  nee,  that  we  lend  ourselves  willingly  10  any  one  who  seeks  to 
help  our  judgment  of  the  individual  by  tests  taken  from  the  general  knowl- 
edge of  mankind. 

Round  the  great  image  of  the  Last  of  the  Barons  group  Edward  the 
Fourth,  at  once  frank  and  false  ;  the  brilliant  but  ominous  boyhood  of  Rich- 
ard the  Third  ;  the  accomplished  Hastings,  "  a  good  knight  and  gen.le,  but 
somewhat  dissolute  of  living  *' ;  §  the  vehement  and  fiery  Margaret  of  Anjou, 
the  meek  image  of  her  "  holy  Henry,"  and  the  pale  shadow  of  their  son  ; 
there  may  we  see,  also,  the  gorgeous  Prelate,  refining  in  policy  and  wile,  as 
the  enthusiasm  and  energy  which  had  formerly  upheld  the  Ancient  Church 
pass  into  the  stern  and  persecuted  votaries  of  the  New  :  we  behold,  in  that 
social  transition,  the  sober  Trader,  outgrowing  the  prejudices  of  the  rude 
retainer  or  rustic  franklin,  from  whom  he  is  sprung,  recognizing  sagaciously, 
and  supporting  sturdily,  the  sectarian  interes'S  of  his  order,  and  preparing 
the  way  for  the  mighty  Middle  Class  in  which  our  modern  civi  ization,  with 
its  faults  and  its  merits,  has  established  its  strong  hold  ;  while,  in  contrast  to 
the  measured  and  thoughtful  notions  of  liberty  which  prudent  Commerce 
entertains,  we  are  reminded  of  the  political  fana'icism  of  the  secret  Lollard  ; 
of  the  jacquerie  of  the  turbulent  mobleader  ;  and  perceive,  amidst  the  vari- 
ous tyrannies  of  the  time,  and  often  partially  allied  with  the  warlike  seigno- 
rie  | — ever  jealous  against  all  kingly  despotism — the  restless  and  ignorant 
movement  of  a  democratic  principle,  ultimately  suppressed,  though  not 
destroyed,  under  the  Tudors,  by  the  strong  union  of  a  Middle  Class,  anxious 
for  security  and  order,  with  an  Executive  Authority  determined  upon  abso- 
lute sway. 

Nor  should  we  obtain  a  complete  and  comprehensive  view  of  that  most 
interesting  Period  of  Transition,  unless  we  saw  som-thmg  of  the  influence 
which  the  sombre  and  sinister  wisdom  of  Italian  policy  began  to  exercise 
over  the  councils  of  the  great — a  policy  of  refined  stratagem,  of  complicated 

*  Hume  adds,  "  and  rendered  the  people  incapable  of  civil  government";  a  sentence, 
which,  perhaps,  judges  too  hastily  the  whole  question  at  issue  in  our  earlier  history, 
between  the  jealousy  of  the  Barons  and  the  authority  of  the  King. 

t  Hume.        J  Ibid.        §  "Chronicle  of  Edward  V.  in  Stowe." 

\  For  it  is  noticeable,  that  in  nearly  all  the  popular  risings — that  of  Cade,  of  Robin  of 
Bedesdale,  and  afterwards  of  that  which  Perkin  Warbeck  made  subservient  to  his  extraor- 
dinary enterprise,  the  proclamations  of  the  rebels  always  announced,  among  their  popular 
grievances,  the  depression  of  the  ancient  nobles  and  the  elevation  of  new  men. 


Intrigue,  of  systematic  falsehood,  of  ruthless,  but  secret  violence — a  policy 
which  actuated  the  fell  statecraft  of  Louis  XI.;  which  darkened,  whenever 
he  paused  to  think  and  to  scheme,  the  gaudy  and  jovial  character  of  Edward 
IV. ;  which  appeared  in  its  fullest  combination  of  profound  guile  and  reso- 
lute will  in  Richard  III.,  and,  softened  down  into  more  plausible  and  spe- 
cious purpose  by  the  unimpassione<l  sagacity  of  Henry  VII.,  finally  attained 
the  object  which  justified  all  its  villanies  to  the  princes  of  its  native  land — 
namely,  the  tranquillity  of  a  settled  state,  and  the  establishment  of  a  civilized 
but  imperious  despotism. 

Again,  in  that  twilight  time,  upon  which  was  dawning  the  great  Invention 
that  gave  to  Letters  and  to  Science  the  precision  and  durability  of  the  printed 
page  ;  it  is  interesting  to  conjecture  what  would  have  been  the  fate  of  any 
scientific  achievement  for  which  the  world  was  less  prepared.  The  reception 
of  printing  into  England  chanced  just  at  the  happy  period  when  Scholar- 
ship and  Literature  were  favored  by  the  great.  The  princes  of  York,  with 
the  exception  of  Edward  IV.  himself,  who  had,  however,  the  grace  to  lament 
his  own  want  of  learning,  and  the  taste  to  appreciate  it  in  others,  were  highly 
educated.  The  Lords  Rivers  and  Hastings  *  were  accomplished  in  all  the 
"  witte  and  lere  "  of  their  age.  Princes  and  peers  vied  with  each  other  in 
their  patronage  of  Caxton,  and  Richard  III.,  during  his  brief  reign,  spared 
no  pains  to  circulate  to  the  utmost  the  invention  destined  to  transmit  his  own 
memory  to  the  hatred  and  the  horror  of  all  succeeding  time.  But  when  we 
look  around  us,  we  see,  in  contrast  to  the  gracious  and  fostering  reception  of 
the  mere  mechanism  by  which  science  is  made  manifest,  the  utmost  intoler- 
ance to  science  itself.  The  mathematics  in  especial  are  deemed  the  very 
cabala  of  the  black  art ;  accusations  of  witchcraft  were  never  more  abun- 
dant, and  yet,  strange  to  say,  those  who  openly  professed  to  practise  the 
unhallowed  science,  f  and  contrived  to  make  their  deceptions  profitable  to 
some  unworthy  political  purpose,  appear  to  have  enjoyed  safety,  and  some- 
times even  honor,  while  those  who,  occupied  with  some  practical,  useful,  and 
noble  pursuits,  uncomprehended  by  prince  or  people,  denied  their  sorcery, 
were  dispatched  without  mercy.  The  mathematician  and  astronomer,  Bol- 
ingbroke  (the  greatest  clerk  of  his  age),  is  hanged  and  quartered  as  a  wizard, 
while  not  only  impunity  but  reverence  seems  to  have  awaited  a  certain  Friar 
Bungey,  for  having  raised  mists  and  vapors,  which  greatly  befriended  Edward 
IV.  at  the  battle  of  Barnet. 

Our  knowledge  of  the  intellectual  spirit  of  the  age,  therefore,  only  becomes 
perfect  when  we  contrast  the  success  of  the  Impostor  with  the  fate  of  the  true 
Genius.  And  as  the  prejudices  of  the  populace  ran  high  against  all  mechani- 
cal contrivances  for  altering  the  settled  conditions  of  labor,  J  so,  probably, 
in  the  very  instinct  and  destiny  of  Genius,  which  ever  drive  it  to  a  war  with 
popular  prejudice,  it  would  be  towards  such  contrivances  that  a  man  of  great 

*  The  erudite  Lord  Worcester  had  been  one  of  Caxton's  warmest  patrons,  but  that 
nobleman  was  no  more,  at  the  time  in  which  Printing  is  said  to  have  been  actually  intro- 
duced into  England. 

t  Nigromancy  or  Sorcery  even  took  its  place  amongst  the  regular  callings.  Thus, 
"_Thomas  Vandyke  late  of  Cambridge,1'  is  styled  (Rolls  Parl.  6,  p.  273)  Nigromancer,  as 
his  profession. — Sharon  Turner,  "  History  of  England,"  vol.  iv.  p.  6.  Bucke,  "  History 
of  Richard  III." 

t  Even  in  the  article  of  bonnets  and  hats,  it  appears  that  certain  wicked  Fulling  Mills 
were  deemed  worthy  of  a  special  anathema  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  These  engines  are 
accused  of  having  sought  "  by  subtle  imagination,"  the  destruction  of  the  original  makers 
of  hats  and  bonnets,  "  by  man's  strength  -that  is,  with  hands  and  feet."  And  an  act  of 
parliament  was  passed  (aad  of  Edward  IV.)  to  put  down  the  fabrication  of  the  said  hats 
and  bonnets  by  Mechanical  contrivance. 


Vi  DEDICATORY     EPISTLE. 

ingenuity  and  intellect,  if  studying  the  physical  sciences,  would  direct  his 
ambition. 

Whether  the  author,  in  the  invention  he  has  assigned  to  his  philosopher 
(A»lam  Warner),  has  too  bololy  assumed  the  possibility  of  a  conception  so 
much  in  advance  of  the  time,  they  who  have  examined  such  of  the  works  of 
Roger  Hacon  as  are  yet  given  to  the  world,  can  best  decide  ;  but  the  assump- 
tion in  iiself  belongs  strictly  to  the  most  acknowledged  prerogatives  of  Fic- 
tion ;  and  the  tiue  and  important  question  will  obviously  be,  not  whether 
Adam  Warner  could  have  constructed  his  model,  but  whether,  having  so  con- 
structed it,  the  fate  that  befel  him  was  probable  and  natural. 

Such  chaiacteis  as  I  have  here  alluded  to  seemed,  then,  to  me,  in  medi- 
tating the  treatment  of  the  high  and  brilliant  subject  which  your  eloquence 
animated  me  to  attempt,  the  proper  representatives  of  the  multiform  Truths 
which  the  time  of  Warwick,  the  King-maker,  affords  to  our  interests  and 
suggests  for  our  instruction  ;  and  1  can  only  wish  that  the  powers  of  the 
author  were  worthier  of  the  theme. 

It  is  necessary  that  I  now  state  briefly  the  foundation  of  the  historical  por- 
tions of  this  narrative.  The  charming  and  popular  histury  of  Hume,  which, 
however,  in  its  treatment  of  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  is  rjaQre  than  ordinarily 
|n,flp.rr«-ct.  has  probably  left  upon  the  minds  of  many  of  my"  reaclers,  woo 
may  not  have  directed  their  attention  to  more  rectnt  and  accurate  researches 
into  that  obscure  period,  an  erroneous  impression  of  the  cau>es  which  led  to 
the  breach  between  Edward  IV.  and  his  great  kinsman  and  subject,  the  Earl 
of  Warwick.  The  general  notion  is  probably  still  strong,  that  it  was  the 
marriage  of  the  young  king  to  Elizabeth  Gray,  during  Warwick's  negotia- 
tions in  France  for  the  alliance  of  Bonaof  Savoy  (sister-in-law  to  Louis  XI.), 
which  exasperated  the  fiery  Earl,  and  induced  his  union  with  the  House  of 
Lancaster.  All  our  more  recent  historians  have  justly  rejected  this  ground- 
less fable,  which  even  Hume  (his  exireme  penetration  supplying  the  defects 
of  his  superficial  research)  admits  with  reserve.*  A  short  summary  of  the 
reasons  for  this  rejection  is  given  by  Dr.  Lingard,  and  annexed  below. f 
And,  indeed,  it  is  a  matter  of  wonder  that  so  many  of  our  chroniclers  could 
have  gravely  admitted  a  legend  comradicted  by  all  the  subsequent  conduct  of 
\Vanvick  himself.  For  we  find  the  Earl  specially  doing  honor  to  the  publi- 
cation of  Edward's  marriage,  standing  godfather  to  his  first  born  (the  Princess 
Elizabeth),  employed  as  ambassador,  or  acting  as  minister,  and  fighting  for 
Edward,  and  against  the  Lancastrians  during  the  five  years  that  elapsed 
between  the  coronation  of  Elizabeth  and  Warwick's  rebellion. 

The  real  causes  of  this  memorable  quarrel,  in  which  Warwick  acquired  his 
title  of  King-maker,  appear  to  have  been  these. 

"  There  may  even  some  doubt  arise  with  regard  to  the  proposal  of  marriage  made  to 
Bona  of  Savoy,"  etc. — Hume,  note  to  p.  222,  vol.  iii.,  edit.  1825. 

t  "  Many  writers  tells  us  that  the  enmity  of  Warwick  arose  from  his  disappointment, 
caused  by  Edward's  clandestine  marriage  with  Elizabeth.  If  we  may  believe  them,  the 
Earl  was  at  the  very  time  in  France  negotiating  on  the  part  of  the  King  a  marriage 
with  Bona  of  Savoy,  sister  to  the  Queen  of  France  ;  and  having  succeeded  in  his  mission, 
brought  back  with  him  the  Count  of  Dampmartin  as  ambassador  from  Louis.  To  me  the 
whole  story  appears  a  fiction,  i.  It  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  more  ancient  historians.  2. 
Warwick  was  not  at  the  time  in  France.  On  the  2oth  of  April,  ten  days  before  the  mar- 
riage, he  was  employed  in  negotiating  a  truce  with  the  French  envoys  in  London  (Rym  xi. 
521),  and  on  the  2601  of  May  about  three  weeks  after  it,  was  appointed  to  treat  of  another 
truce  with  the  King  of  Scots  (Rym.  xi.  424)  3.  Nor  could  he  bring  Dampmartin  with  him 
to  England.  For  that  nobleman  was  committed  a  prisoner  to  the  Kastile  in  September, 
146?,  and  remained  there  till  May,  1465.  (Monstrel.  iii.  07,  109).  Three  contemporary  and 
well-in  formed  writers,  the  two  continuators  of  the  histoiy  of  Croyland,  and  Wyrcester, 
attribute  his  disaontent  to  the  marriages  and  honors  granted  to  the  Wydeviles,  and  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Princess  Margaret  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy."  Lingard,  vol.  iii.  c.  24,  p.  5 
19, 410  edition. 


DEDICATORY      EPISTLE.  Vl'l 

It  is  probable  enough,  as  Sharon  Turner  suggests,*  that  Warwick  was 
disappointed  that,  since  Edward  chose  a  subject  for  his  wife,  he  neglected 
the  more  suitable  marriage  he  might  have  formed  with  the  Earl's  eldest 
daughter  :  and  it  is  impossible  but  that  the  Earl  should  have  been  greatly 
chafed  in  common  with  all  his  order,  by  the  promotion  of  the  Queen's  rela- 
tions, f  new  men,  and  apostate  Lancastrians.  But  is  clear  that  these  causes 
for  discontent  never  weakened  his  zeal  for  Edward  till  the  year  1467,  when 
we  chance  upon  the  true  origin  of  the  romance  concerning  Bona  of  Savoy, 
and  the  first  open  dissension  between  Edward  and  the  Earl. 

In  that  year  Warwick  went  to  France,  to  conclude  an  alliance  with  Louis 
XL,  and  :o  secure  the  hand  of  one  of  the  French  princes  ^  for  Margaret, 
sister  to  Edward  IV.;  during  this  period,  Edward  received  the  bastard 
brother  of  Charles,  Count  of  Charolois,  afterwards  Duke  of  Burgundy,  and 
arranged  a  marriage  between  Margaret  and  the  Count. 

Warwick's  embassy  was  thus  dishonored,  and  the  dishonor  was  aggra- 
vated by  personal  tnmiiy  to  the  bridegroom  Edward  had  preferred. §  The 
Earl  retired  in  disgust  to  his  castle.  But  Warwick's  nature,  which  Hume 
has  happily  described  as  one  of  "  undesigning  frankness  and  openness, "  ||  does 
not  seem  to  have  long  harbored  this  resentment.  By  the  intercession  of  the 
Archbishop  of  York  and  others,  a  reconciliation  was  effected,  and  the  next 
year,  1468,  we  find  Warwick  again  in  favor,  and  even  so  far  forgetting  his 
own  former  cause  of  complaint  as  to  accompany  the  procession  in  honor  of 
Margaret's  nuptials  with  his  private  foe.^1"  In  the  following  year,  however, 
arose  the  second  dissension  between  the  King  and  his  minis' er  ;  viz.,  in  the 
King's  refusal  to  sanction  the  marriage  of  his  brother  Clarence  with  the 
Earl's  daughter  Isabel — a  refusal  which  was  attended  with  a  resolute  opposi- 
tion -h.it  must  greatly  have  galled  the  pride  of  the  Earl,  since  Edward  even 
went  so  far  as  **  to  solicit  the  Pope  to  refuse  his  sanction,  on  the  ground  of 
relaiionship.  The  Pope,  nevertheless,  granis  the  dispensation,  and  ihe  rflar- 
riage  takes  place  at  Calais.  A  popular  rebellion  then  breaks  out  in  England. 
Some  of  Warwick's  kinsmen — ihose,  however,  belonging  to  the  branch  of 
the  Nevile  family  that  had  always  been  Lancastrians,  and  at  variance  with 
the  Earl's  party — are  found  at  its  head.  The  King,  who  is  in  imminent  dan- 
ger, writes  a  supplicating  letter  to  Warwick  to  come  to  his  aid.ff  The 
Earl  again  forgets  former  causes  for  resentment,  hastens  from  Ca'ais, 
rescues  the  King,  and  quells  the  rebellion,  by  the  influence  of  his  popular 
name. 

We  next  find  Edward  at  Warwick's  castle  of  Middleham,  where,  accord- 

*  Sharon  Turner,  "  Hist.  England,"  vol.  iii.  p.  269.        t  W.  Wyr.  506,  7.    Croyl.  542. 

{  Which  of  the  princes  this  was,  does  not  appear,  and  can  scarcely  be  conjectured.  The 
"  Pictorial  History  of  England  "  (Book  v.  102),  in  a  tone  of  easy  decision,  says  "  it  was 
one  of  the  sons  of  Louis  XI."  But  Louis  had  no  living  sons  at  all  at  the  time.  The 
Dauphin  was  not  born  till  three  years  afterwards.  The  most  probable  person  was  the 
Duke  of  Guienne,  Louis's  brother. 

§The  Croyland  Historian,  who,  as  far  as  his  brief  and  meagre  record  extends,  is  the  best 
authority  for  the  time  of  Edward  IV'.,  very  decidedly  states  the  Burgundian  alliance  to  be 
the  original  cause  of  Warwick's  displeasure,  rather  than  the  King's  marriage  with  Eliza- 
beth:  Upon  which  (the  marriage  of  Margaret  with  Charolois),  Richard  Nevile,  Earl  of 
Warwick,  who  had  for  so  many  years  taken  party  with  the  French  against  the  Burgundians, 
conceived  great  indignation  :  and  I  hold  this  to  be  the  truer  cause  of  his  resentment,  than 
the  King's  marriage  with  Elizabeth,  for  he  had  rather  have  procured  a  husband  for  the 
aforesaid  Princess  Margaret  in  the  kingdom  of  France."  The  Croyland  Historian  also 
speaks  emphatically  of  the  strong  animosity  existing  between  Charolois  and  Warwick. — 
Cont  Croyl.  551. 

I  Hume,  "  Henry  VI.,"  vol.  iii.  p,  172,  edit.  1825.      H  Lingard.      **  Carte.    Wm.  Wyre. 

tt  "  Paston  Letters,"  cxcviii.  vol.  ii..  Knight's  edition.  See  Lingard,  c.  24,  for  the  true 
date  of  Edward's  letters  to  Warwick,  Clarence,  and  the  Archbishop  of  York. 


Viii  DEDICATORY    EPISTLE. 

ing  to  some  historians,  he  is  forcibly  detained — an  assertion  treated  by  others 
as  a  contemptible  invention  ;  this  question  will  be  examined  in  the  course  of 
this  work  ;*  but,  whatever  the  true  construction  of  the  story,  we  find  that 
\Y  .11  wick  and  the  King  are  still  on  such  friendly  terms  that  the  Earl  marches 
in  person  against  a  rebellion  on  the  borders — obtains  a  signal  victory — and 
that  the  rebel  leader  (the  Earl's  own  kinsman)  is  beheaded  by  Edward  at 
York.  We  find  that,  immediately  after  this  supposed  detention,  Edward 
speaks  of  Warwick  and  his  brothers  "  as  his  best  friends  ";  f  that  he  betroths 
his  eldest  daughter  to  Warwick's  nephew,  the  male  heir  of  the  family.  And 
then  suddenly,  only  three  months  afterwards  (in  Feb.,  1470),  and  without 
any  clear  and  apparent  cause,  we  find  Warwick  in  open  rebellion,  animated 
by  a  deadly  hatred  to  the  King,  refusing,  from  first  to  last,  all  overtures  of 
conciliation  ;  and  so  determined  is  his  vengeance  that  he  bows  a  pride, 
hitherto  morbidly  susceptible,  to  the  vehement  insolence  of  Margaret  of  An- 
jou,  and  forms  the  closest  alliance  with  the  Lancastrian  party,  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  which  his  whole  life  had  previously  been  employed  1 

Here,  then,  where  History  leaves  us  in  the  dark — where  our  curiosity  is 
the  most  excited,  Fiction  giopes  amidst  the  ancient  chronicles,  and  seeks  to 
detect  and  to  guess  the  truth.  And  then.  Fiction,  accustomed  to  deal  with 
the  human  heart,  seizes  upon  the  paramount  importance  of  a  Fact  which  the 
modern  historian  has  been  contented  to  place  amongst  dubious  and  collateral 
causes  of  dissension.  We  find  it  broadly  and  strongly  stated,  by  Hall  and 
others,  that  Edward  had  coarsely  attempted  the  virtue  of  one  of  the  Earl's 
female  relations.  "And  farther  it  erreth  not  from  the  truth,"  says  Hall, 
"  that  the  King  did  attempt  a  thing  once  in  the  Earl's  house,  which  was 
much  against  the  Earl's  honesty  ;  but  whether  it  was  the  daughter  or  the 
niece,"  adds  the  chronicler,  "  was  not,  for  both  their  honors,  openly  known; 
but  surely  such  a  thing  WAS  attempted  by  King  Edward,"  etc. 

Any  one  at  all  familiar  with  Hall  (and,  indeed,  with  all  our  principal 
chroniclers,  except  Fabyan),  will  not  expect  any  accurate  precision  as  to  the 
date  he  assigns  for  the  outrage.  He  awards  to  it,  therefore,  the  same  date 
he  erroneously  gives  to  Warwick's  other  grudges  (viz.,  a  period  brought  some 
years  lower  by  all  judicious  historians), — a  date  at  which  Warwick  was  still 
Edward's  fastest  friend. 

Once  grant  the  probability  of  this  insult  to  the  Earl  (the  probability  is  con- 
ceded at  once  by  the  more  recent  historians,  and  received  without  scruple  as 
a  fact  by  Rapin,  Habington,  and  Carte),  and  the  whole  obscurity  which 
involves  this  memorable  quarrel  vanishes  at  once.  Here  was,  indeed  a 
wrong  never  to  be  forgiven,  and  yet  never  to  be  proclaimed.  As  Hall 
implies,  the  honor  of  the  Earl  was  implicated  in  hushing  the  scandal,  and 
the  honor  of  Edward  in  concealing  the  offence.  That,  if  ever  the  insult 
were  attempted,  it  must  have  been  just  previous  to  the  Earl's  declared  hos- 
tility, is  clear.  Offences  of  that  kind  hurry  men  to  immediate  action  at 
the  first,  or  else,  if  they  stoop  to  dissimulation,  the  more  effectually  to 

*  See  Note  II. 

+  "  Paston  Letters,"  cciv.  vol.  ii.,  Knight's  edition.  The  date  of  this  letter,  which  puz- 
zled the  worthy  annptator,  is  clearly  to  be  referred  to  Edward's  return  from  York,  after  his 
visit  to  Middleham  in  1469.  No  mention  is  therein  made  by  the  gossiping  contemporary  of 
any  rumor  that  Edward  had  suffered  imprisonment.  He  enters  the  city  in  state,  as 
having  returned  safe  and  victorious  from  a  formidable  rebellion.  The  letter  goes  on  to 
say  ;  ''  The  King  himself  hath  (that  is,  holds)  good  language  of  the  Lords  Clarence,  of 
Warwick,  etc.,  saying,  '  they  be  his  best  friends.'"  Would  he  say  this  if  just  escaped 
from  a  prison  ?  Sir  John  Paston,  the  writer  of  the  letter,  adds,  it  is  true,  "  But  his  house- 
hold men  (hold)  other  language."  Very  probably,  for  the  household  men  were  the  court 
creatures  always  at  variance  with  Warwick,  and  held,  no  doubt,  the  sam«  language  they 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  holding  before. 


DEDICATORY    EPISTLE.  iX 

avenge  afterwards,  the  outbreak  bides  its  seasonable  time.  But  the  time 
selected  by  the  Earl  for  his  outbreak  was  the  very  worst  he  could  have 
chosen,  and  attests  the  influence  of  a  sudden  passion — a  new  and  uncalculated 
cause  of  resentment.  He  had  no  forces  collected  ;  he  had  not  even  sounded 
his  own  brother-in-law,  Lord  Stanley  (since  he  was  uncertain  of  his  intentions), 
while,  but  a  few  months  before,  had  he  felt  any  desire  to  dethrone  the  King, 
he  could  either  have  suffered  him  to  be  crushed  by  the  popular  rebellion  the 
Earl  himself  had  quelled,  or  have  disposed  of  his  person  as  he  pleased,  when  a 
guest  at  his  own  castle  of  Middleham.  His  evident  want  of  all  preparation 
and  forethought — a  want  which  drove  into  rapid  and  compulsory  flight  from 
England  the  baron  to  whose  banner,  a  few  months  afterwards,  flocked  sixty 
thousand  men — proves  that  the  cause  of  his  alienation  was  fresh  and  recent. 
If,  then,  the  cause  we  have  referred  to,  as  mentioned  by  Hall  and  others, 
seems  the  most  probable  we  can  find  (no  other  cause  for  such  abrupt  hostility 
being  discernible),  the  date  for  it  must  be  placed  where  it  is  in  this  work — 
viz.,  just  prior  to  the  Earl's  revolt.  The  next  question  is,  who  could  have 
been  the  lady  thus  offended,  whether  a  niece  or  daughter  ;  scarcely  a  niece, 
for  Warwick  had  one  married  brother,  Lord  Montagu,  and  several  sisters, 
but  the  sisters  were  married  to  lords  who  remained  friendly  to  Edward,*  and 
Montagu  seems  to  have  had  no  daughter  out  of  childhood, f  while  that 
nobleman  himself  did  not  share  Warwick's  rebellion  at  the  first,  but  con- 
tinued to  enjoy  the  confidence  of  Edward.  We  cannot  reasonably,  then, 
conceive  the  uncle  to  have  been  so  much  more  revengeful  than  the  parents — 
the  legitimate  guardians  of  the  honor  of  a  daughter.  It  is,  therefore,  more 
probable  that  the  insulted  maiden  should  have  been  one  of  Lord  Warwick's 
daughters,  and  this  is  the  general  belief.  Carte  plainly  declares  it  was 
Isabel.  But  Isabel  it  could  hardly  have  been  ;  she  was  then  married  to 
Edward's  brother,  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  and  within  a  month  of  her  confine- 
ment. The  Earl  had  only  one  other  daughter,  Anne,  then  in  the  flower  of 
her  youth ;  and  though  Isabel  appears  to  have  possessed  a  more  striking 
character  of  beauty,  Anne  must  have  had  no  inconsiderable  charms  to  have 
won  the  love  of  the  Lancastrian  Prince  Edward,  and  to  have  inspired  a  ten- 
der and  human  affection  in  Richard  Duke  of  Gloucester.^:  •  It  is  also  notice- 
able, that  when,  not  as  Shakspeare  represents,  but  after  long  solicitation,  and 
apparently  by  positive  coercion,  Anne  formed  her  second  marriage,  she  seems 

*  Except  the  sisters  married  to  Lord  Fitzhugh  and  Lord  Oxford.  But  though  Fitzhugh, 
or  rather  his  son,  broke  into  rebellion,  it  was  for  some  cause  in  which  Warwick  did  not 
sympathize,  for  by  Warwick  himself  was  that  rebellion  put  down  ;  nor  could  the  aggrieved 
lady  have  been  a  daughter  of  Lord  Oxford's,  for  he  was  a  stanch,  though  not  avowed, 
Lancastrian,  and  seems  to  have  carefully  kept  aloof  from  the  court. 

t  Montagu's  wife  could  have  been  little  more  than  thirty  at  the  time  of  his  death.  She 
married  again,  and  had  a  family  by  her  second  husband. 

t  Not  only  does  Majerus,  the  Flemish  Annalist,  speak  of  Richard's  easy  affection  to 
Anne,  but  Richard's  pertinacity  in  marrying  her,  at  a  time  when  her  family  was  crushed 
and  fallen,  seems  to  sanction  the  assertion.  True,  that  Richard  received  with  her  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  the  estates  of  her  parents.  But  both  Anne  herself  and  her  parents 
were  attainted,  and  the  whole  property  at  the  disposal  of  the  crown.  Richard  at  that  time 
had  conferred  the  most  important  services  on  Edward.  He  had  remained  faithful  to  him 
during  the  rebellion  of  Clarence  ;  he  had  been  the  hero  of  the  day  both  at  Barnet  and 
Tewksbury.  His  reputation  was_then  exceedingly  high,  and  if  he  had  demanded,  as  a 
legitimate  reward,  the  lands  of  Middleham,  without  the  bride,  Edward  could  not  well  have 
refused  them.  He  certainly  had  a  much  better  claim  than  the  only  competitor  for  the  con- 
fiscated estates,  viz.,  the  perjured  and  despicable  Clarence.  For  Anne's  reluctance  to 
marry  Richard,  and  the  disguise  she  assumed,  see  Miss  Strickland's  "  Life  of  Anne  of  War- 
wick." For  the  honor  of  Anne,  rather  than  of  Richard,  to  whose  memory  one  crime  more 
or  less  matters  but  little,  it  may  here  be  observed  that  so  far  from  there  being  any  ground 
to  suppose  that  Gloucester  was  an  accomplice  in  the  assassination  of  the  young  Prince 
Edward  of  Lancaster,  there  is  some  ground  to  believe  that  that  prince  was  not  assassinated 
at  all,  but  died  (as  we  would  fain  hope  the  grandson  of  Henry  V.  did  die)  fighting  manfully  in 
the  field.  Harleian  MSS.;  Stowe,  Chronicle  of  Tewksbury;  Sharon  Turner,  vol.  iii.  p.  335. 


X  DEDICATORY     EPISTLE. 

to  have  been  kept  carefully  by  Richard  from  his  gay  brother's  court,  and 
rarely,  if  ever,  to  have  appeared  in  London  till  Edward  was  no  more. 

That  considerable  obscurity  should  always  rest  upon  ihe  facts  connected 
\    with   Edward's   meditated    crime  ;    that   they   should    never  be    published 
amongst  the  grievances  of  the  haughty  rebei,  is  natural  from  the  very  dignity 
;l      of  the  parties,  and  the  character  of  the  offence  ;  thai  in  such  obscuiity,  sober 
History  should  not  venture  too  far  on  the  hypothesis  suggested  by  the  chron- 
icler, is  right  and  laudable.     But  probably  it  will  be  conceded  by  all,  that 
here  Fiction  finds  its  lawful  province,  and  that  it  may  reasonably  help,  by  no 
improbable  nor  groundless  conjecture,  to  lender  connected  and  clear  the  most 
broken  ai.d  the  darkest  fragments  of  our  annals. 

I  have  judged  it  bttter  partially  to  forestall  the  interest  of  the  reader  in 
my  narrative,  by  stating  thus  openly  what  he  may  exptct,  than  to  enc  mnter 
the  far  less  favorable  improsion  (if  he  had  been  hitherto  a  beli.  ver  in  the 
old  romance  of  Bona  of  Savoy*),  that  the  author  was  taking  an  unwarrant- 
able liberty  with  the  real  facts,  when,  in  truth,  it  is  upon  the  real  faUs,  as 
far  as  they  can  be  ascertained,  that  the  author  has  built  his  tale,  and  his 
boldest  inventions  are  but  deductions  from  the  amplest  evidence  he  could 
collect.  Nay,  he  even  ventures  to  believe,  that  whoever,  hereafter,  shall 
write  the  history  of  Edward  IV.,  will  not  disdain  to  avail  himself  of  some 
suggestions  scattered  throughout  these  volumes,  and  tending  to  throw  new 
light  upon  the  events  of  that  intricate  but  important  period. 

It  is  probable  that  this  work  will  prove  more  popular  in  its  nature  than  my 
last  fiction  of  "  Zancni,"  which  could  only  be  relished  by  those  interested  in 
the  examination  of  the  various  problems  in  human  life  which  it  attempts  to 
solve.  But  both  fictions,  however  different  and  distinct  their  treatment,  are 
constructed  on  those  principles  of  art  to  which,  in  all  my  later  works,  how- 
ever imperfect  my  success,  I  have  sought  at  least  steadily  to  adhere. 

To  my  mind,  a  writer  should  sit  down  to  compose  a  fiction  as  a  painter 
prepares  to  compose  a  picture.  His  first  care  should  be  the  conception  of  a 
whole  as  lofty  as  his  intellect  can  grasp,  as  harmonious  and  complete  as  his 
art  can  accomplish  ;  his  second  care,  the  character  of  the  interest  which  the 
details  are  intended  to  sustain. 

It  is  when  we  compare  works  of  imagination  in  writing,  with  works  of 
imagination  on  the  canvas,  that  we  can  best  form  a  critical  idea  of  the  differ- 
ent schools  which  exist  in  each  ;  for  common  both  to  the  author  and  the 
painter  are  those  styles  which  we  call  the  Familiar,  the  Picturesque,  and  the 
Intellectual.  By  recurring  to  this  comparison  we  can  without  much  diffi- 
culty classify  works  of  Fiction  in  their  proper  order,  and  estimate  the- rank 
they  should  severally  hold.  The  Intellectual  will  probably  never  be  the  most 
widely  popular  for  the  moment.  He  who  prefers  to  study  in  this  school 
must  be  prepared  for  much  depreciation,  for  its  greatest  excellences,  even  if 
he  achieve  them,  are  the  most  obvious  to  the  many.  In  discussing,  for 
instance,  a  modern  work,  we  hear  it  praised,  perhaps,  for  some  striking  pas- 
sage, some  prominent  character  ;  but  when  do  we  ever  hear  any  comment  on 
its  harmony  of  construction,  on  its  fullness  of  design,  on  its  ideal  character, — 
on  its  essentials,  in  short,  as  a  work  of  art  ?  What  we  hear  most  valued  in 
the  picture,  we  often  find  the  most  neglected  in  the  book,  viz.,  t)ie  composi- 
tion; and  this,  simply,  because  in  England  painting  is  recognized  as  an  art, 
and  estimated  according  to  definite  theories.  But  in  literature,  we  judge 

•  I  say,  the  old  romance  of  Bona  of  Savoy — so  far  as  Edward's  rejection  of  her  hand  for 
that  of  Elizabeth  Gray  is  stated  to  have  made  the  cause  of  his  quarrel  with  Warwick.  But 
I  do  not  deny  the  possibility  that  such  a  marriage  had  been  contemplated  and  advised  by 
V/arwick,  though  he  neither  sought  to  negotiate  it,  nor  was  wronged  by  Edward's  prefer- 
ence of  his  fair  subject. 


DEDICATORY    EPISTLE.  Xl 

from  a  taste  never  formed — from  a  thousand  prejudices  and  ignorant  predic- 
tions. We  do  not  yet  comprehend  that  the  author  is  an  artist,  and  that  the 
true  rules  of  art  by  which  he  should  be  tested  are  precise  and  immutable. 
Hence  the  singular  and  fantastic  caprices  of  the  popular  opinion — its  exag- 
gerations of  praise  or  censure,  its  passion  and  re-action.  At  one  while,  its 
solemn  contempt  for  Wordsworth  ;  at  another,  its  absurd  idolatry.  At  one 
while  we  are  stunned  by  the  noisy  celebrity  of  Byron  ;  at  another,  we  are 
calmly  told  that  he  can  scarcely  be  called  a  poet.  Each  of  these  variations 
in  the  public  is  implicitly  followed  by  the  vulgar  criticism  ;  and  as  a  few  years 
back  our  journals  vied  with  each  other  in  ridiculing  Wordsworth  for  the  faults 
which  he  did  not  possess,  they  vie  now  with  each  other  in  eulogiums  upon 
the  merits  which  he  has  never  displayed. 

These  violent  fluctuations  betray  both  a  public  and  a  criticism  utterly 
unschooled  in  the  elementary  principles  of  literary  art,  and  entitle  the  hum- 
blest author  to  dispute  the  censure  of  the  hour,  while  they  ought  to  render 
the  greatest  suspicious  of  its  praise. 

It  is,  then,  in  conformity,  not  with  any  presumptuous  conviction  of  his  own 
superiority,  but  with  his  common  experience  and  common-sense,  that  every  au- 
thor who  addresses  an  English  audience  in  serious  earnest  is  permitted  to  feel 
that  his  final  sentence  rests  not  with  the  jury  before  which  he  is  first  heard. 
The  literary  history  of  the  day  consists  of  a  series  of  judgments  set  aside. 

But  this  uncertainty  must  more  essentially  betide  every  student,  however 
lowly,  in  the  school  I  have  called  the  Intellectual,  which  must  ever  be  more 
or  less  at  variance  with  the  popular  canons  ;  it  is  its  hard  necessity  to  vex 
and  disturb  the  lazy  quietude  of  vulgar  taste,  for  unless  it  did  so,  it  could 
neither  elevate  nor  move.  He  who  resigns  the  Dutch  art  for  the  Italian 
must  continue  through  the  dark  to  explore  the  principles  upon  which  he 
founds  his  design,  to  which  he  adapts  his  execution  ;  in  hope  or  in  despond- 
ence, still  faithful  to  the  theory  which  cares  less  for  the  amount  of  interest 
created,  than  for  the  sources  from  which  the  interest  is  to  be  drawn — seek- 
ing in  action  the  movement  of  the  grander  passions,  or  the  subtler  springs 
of  conduct — seeking  in  repose  the  coloring  of  intellectual  beauty. 

The  Low  and  the  High  of  Art  are  not  very  readily  comprehended  ;  they 
depend  not  upon  the  worldly  degree  or  the  physical  condition  of  the  charac- 
ters delineated  ;  theyjdegend^ejilirely  jogpn  the  quality  of  the  emotion  which 
the  characters  are  intended  to  excite,  viz.,  whether  of  sympathy  for  something 
Imv,  or  of  admiration  for  something  high.  There  is  nothing  high  in  a  boor's 
head  by  Tenters — there  is  nothing  low  in  a  boor's  head  by  Guido.  What  makes 
the  difference  between  the  two  ?  The  absence  or  presence  of  the  Ideal !  But 
every  one  can  judge  of  the  merit  of  the  first — for  it  is  of  the  Familiar  school — it 
requires  a  connoisseur  to  see  the  merit  of  the  last,  for  it  is  of  the  Intellectual. 

I  have  the  less  scrupled  to  leave  these  remarks  to  cavil  or  to  sarcasm,  because 
^ihis  fiction  is  probably  the  last  with  which  I  shall  trespass  upon  the. Public,  and 
I  am  desirous  that  it  shall  contain,  at  least,  my  avowal  of  the  principles  upon 
which  it  and  its  later  predecessors  have  been  composed  ;  you  know  well,  how- 
ever others  may  dispute  the  fact,  the  earnestness  with  which  those  principles 
have  been  meditated  and  pursued — with  high  desire,  if  but  with  poor  results. 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  feel  that  the  .aim.,  which  I  value  more  than  the  success, 
is  comprehended  by  one,  whose  exquisite  taste  as  a  critic  is  only  impaired  by 
that  far  rarer  quality,  the  disposition  to  0zw-estimate  the  person  you  prof  ess 
to  esteem  !  Adieu,  my  sincere  and  valued  friend  ;  and  accept  as  a  mute 
token  of  gratitude  and  regard,  these  flowers  gathered  in  the  Garden  where 
we  have  so  often  roved  together. 

LONDON,  January,  1843.  E.  L.  B, 


PREFACE  TO  THE   LAST  OF  THE 
BARONS. 


THIS  was  the  first  attempt  of  the  Author  in  Historical  Romance  upon 
English  ground.  Nor  would  he  have  risked  the  disadvantage  of  comparison 
with  the  genius  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  had  he  not  believed  that  that  great 
writer  and  his  numerous  imitators  had  left  altogether  unoccupied  the  peculiar 
field  in  Historical  Romance  which  the  Author  has  here  sought  to  bring  into 
cultivation.  In  "  The  Last  of  the  Barons,"  as  in  "  Harold,"  the  aim  has 
been  to  illustrate  the  actual  history  of  the  period  ;  and  to  bring  into  fuller 
display  than  general  History  itself  has  done,  the  characters  of  the  principal 
personages  of  the  time  ;  the  motives  by  which  they  were  probably  actuated  ; 
the  state  of  parties  :  the  condition  of  the  people  ;  and  the  great  social  inter- 
ests which  were  involved  in  what,  regarded  imperfectly,  appear  but  the  feuds 
of  rival  factions. 

"  The  Last  of  the  Barons  "  has  been  by  many  esteemed  the  best  of  the 
Author's  romances  ;  and  perhaps  in  the  portraiture  of  actual  character,  and 
the  grouping  of  the  various  interests  and  agencies  of  the  time,  it  may  have 
produced  effects  which  re'nder  it  more  vigorous  and  lifelike  than  any  of  the 
other  attempts  in  romance  by  the  same  hand. 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  purely  imaginary  characters  introduced  are 
very  few  ;  and,  however  prominent  they  may  appear  still,  in  order  not  to 
interfere  with  the  genuine  passions  and  events  of  history,  they  are  repre- 
sented as  the  passive  sufferers,  not  the  active  agents,  of  the  real  events.  Of 
these  imaginary  characters,  the  most  successful  is  Adam  Warner,  the  philoso- 
pher in  advance  of  his  age  ;  indeed,  as  an  ideal  portrait,  I  look  upon  it  as 
the  mo>t  original  in  conception,  and  the  most  finished  in  execution,  of  any  to 
be  found  in  my  numerous  prose  works,  "  Zanoni  "  alone  excepted. 

For  the  rest,  I  venture  to  think  that  the  general  reader  will  obtain  from 
these  pages  a  better  notion  of  the  important  age,  characterized  by  the  decline 
of  the  feudal  system,  and  immediately  preceding  that  great  change  in  society 
which  we  usually  date  from  the  accession  of  Henry  VII.,  than  he  could 
otherwise  gather  without  wading  through  a  vast  mass  of  neglected  chronicles 
and  antiquarian  dissertations. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 


BOOK    I. 

THE    ADVENTURES   OF    MASTER   MARMADUKE    NEVILE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  PASTIME  GROUND  OF  OLD  COCKAIGNE. 

WESTWARD,  beyond  the  still  pleasant,  but,  even  then,  no 
longer  solitary,  hamlet  of  Charing,  a  broad  space  broken,  here 
and  there,  by  scattered  houses  and  venerable  pollards,  in  the 
early  spring  of  1467,  presented  the  rural  scene  for  the  sports 
and  pastimes  of  the  inhabitants  of  Westminster  and  London. 
Scarcely  need  we  say  that  open  spaces  for  the  popular  games 
and  diversions  were  then  numerous  in  the  suburbs  of  the  me- 
tropolis. Grateful  to  some,  the  fresh  pools  of  Islington ;  to 
others,  the  grass-bare  fields  of  Finsbury;  to  all,  the  hedgeless 
plains  of  vast  Mile-end.  But  the  site  to  which  we  are  now 
summoned,  was  a  new  and  maiden  holiday  ground,  lately  be- 
stowed upon  the  townsfolk  of  Westminster,  by  the  powerful 
Earl  of  Warwick. 

Raised  by  a  verdant  slope  above  the  low  marsh-grown  soil 
of  Westminster,  the  ground  communicated  to  the  left  with  the 
Brook-fields,  through  which  stole  the  peaceful  Ty-bourne,  and 
commanded  prospects,  on  all  sides  fair,  and  on  each  side  varied. 
Behind,  rose  the  twin  green  hills  of  Hampstead  and  Highgate, 
with  the  upland  park  and  chase  of  Marybone — its  stately  manor- 
house  half-hid  in  woods.  In  front  might  be  seen  the  Convent 
of  the  Lepers,  dedicated  to  St.  James — now  a  palace;  then,  to 
the  left,  York  House,*  now  Whitehall;  farther  on,  the  spires  of 
Westminster  Abbey" — and  the  gloomy  tower  of  the  Sanctuary; 
next,  the  Palace,  with  its  bulwark  and  vawmure,  soaring  from 

*  The  residence  of  the  Archbishops  of  York. 
13 


14  '     LAS1     61      i  MI     HARONS. 

the  river:  while,  vastward,  and  nearer  to  the  scene,  stretched 
the  long  bush-grown  passage  of  the  Strand,  picturesquely 
varied  with  bridges,  and  flanked  to  the  right  by  the  embattled 
halls  of  feudal  nobles,  or  the  inns  of  the  no  less  powerful  prel- 
ates; while  sombre  and  huge,  amidst  hall  and  inn,  loomed  the 
gigantic  ruins  of  the  Savoy,  demolished  in  the  insurrection  of 
Wat  Tyler.  Farther  on  and  farther  yet,  the  eye  wandered 
over  tower,  and  gate,  and  arch,  and  spire,  with  frequent  glimpses 
of  the  broad  sunlit  river,  and  the  opposite  shore  crowned  by 
the  palace  of  Lambeth,  and  the  church  of  St.  Mary  Overies, 
till  the  indistinct  cluster  of  battlements  around  the  Fortress 
Palatine  bounded  the  curious  gaze.  As  whatever  is  new  is  for 
a  while  popular,  so  to  this  pastime-ground,  on  the  day  we  treat 
of,  flocked,  not  only  the  idlers  of  Westminster,  but  the  lordly 
dwellers  of  Ludgate  and  the  Flete,  and  the  wealthy  citizens  of 
tumultuous  Chepe. 

The  ground  was  well  suited  to  the  purpose  to  which  it  was 
devoted.  About  the  outskirts,  indeed,  there  were  swamps  and 
fish-pools ;  but  a  considerable  plot  towards  the  centre  presented 
a  level  sward,  already  worn  bare  and  brown  by  the  feet  of  the 
multitude.  From  this,  towards  the  left,  extended  alleys,  some 
recently  planted,  intended  to  afford,  in  summer,  cool  and  shady 
places  for  the  favorite  game  of  bowls;  while  scattered  clumps, 
chiefly  of  old  pollards,  to  the  right,  broke  the  space  agreeably 
enough  into  detached  portions,  each  of  which  afforded  its  sepa- 
rate pastime  or  diversion.  Around  were  ranged  many  carts,  or 
wagons;  horses  of  all  sorts  and  value  were  led  to  and  fro,  while 
their  owners  were  at  sport.  Tents,  awnings,  hostelries — tempo- 
rary buildings — stages  for  showmen  and  jugglers — abounded, 
and  gave  the  scene  the  appearance  of  a  fair.  But  what  particu- 
larly now  demands  our  attention  was  a  broad  plot  in  the  ground, 
dedicated  to  the  noble  diversion  of  archery.  The  reigning 
House  of  York  owed  much  of  its  military  success  to  the  superior- 
ity of  the  bowmen  under  its  banners,  and  the  Londoners  them- 
selves were  jealous  of  their  reputation  in  this  martial  accomplish- 
ment. For  the  last  fifty  years,  notwithstanding  the  warlike  na- 
ture of  the  times,  the  practice  of  the  bow,  in  the  intervals  of 
peace,  had  been  more  neglected  than  seemed  wise  to  the  rulers. 
Both  the  King  and  his  loyal  city  had  of  late  taken  much  pains 
to  enforce  the  due  exercise  of  "Goddes  instrumente, "  *  upon 
which  an  edict  had  declared  that  "the  liberties  and  honor  of 
England  principally  rested!" 

And  numerous  now  was  the  attendance,  not  only  of  the  citi- 

*  So  caRcd  emphatically  by  Bishop  Latimer,  in  his  celebrated  Sixth  Sermon. 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  IJ 

zens,  the  burghers,  and  the  idle  populace,  but  of  the  gallant 
nobles  who  surrounded  the  court  of  Edward  IV.,  then  in  the 
prime  of  his  youth  ;  the  handsomest,  the  gayest,  and  the  bravest 
prince  in  Christendom. 

The  royal  tournaments  (which  were,  however,  waning  from 
their  ancient  lustre  to  kindle  afresh,  and  to  expire  in  the  reigns 
of  the  succeeding  Tudors),  restricted  to  the  amusement  of 
knight  and  noole,  no  doubt  presented  more  of  pomp  and  splen- 
dor than  the  motley  and  mixed  assembly  of  all  ranks  that  now 
grouped  around  the  competitors  for  the  silver  arrow,  or  lis- 
tened to  the  itinerant  jongleur,  dissour,  or  minstrel ;  or,  seated 
under  the  stunted  shade  of  the  old  trees,  indulged  with  eager 
looks,  and  hands  often  wandering  to  their  dagger  hilts,  in  the 
absorbing  passion  of  the  dice ;  but  no  later  and  earlier  scenes 
of  revelry  ever,  perhaps,  exhibited  that  heartiness  of  enjoyment, 
that  universal  holiday,  which  attended  this  mixture  of  every 
class,  and  established  a  rude  equality  for  the  hour,  between  the 
knight  and  the  retainer,  the  burgess  and  the  courtier. 

The  Revolution  that  placed  Edward  IV.  upon  the  throne 
had,  in  fact,  been  a  popular  one.  Not  only  had  the  valor  and 
moderation  of  his  father  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  -bequeathed 
a  heritage  of  affection  to  his  brave  and  accomplished  son — not 
only  were  the  most  beloved  of  the  great  barons,  the  leaders  of 
his  party — but  the  King  himself,  partly  from  inclination,  partly 
from  policy,  spared  no  pains  to  win  the  good  graces  of  that 
slowly  rising,  but  even  then  important  part  of  the  population — 
the  Middle  Class.  He  was  the  first  king  who  descended,  with- 
out loss  of  dignity  and  respect,  from  the  society  of  his  peers 
and  princes,  to  join  familiarly  in  the  feasts  and  diversions  of  the 
merchant  and  the  trader.  The  lord  mayor  and  council  of 
London  were  admitted,  on  more  than  one  solemn  occasion,  into 
the  deliberations  of  the  Court ;  and  Edward  had  not  long  since, 
on  the  coronation  of  his  queen,  much  to  the  discontent  of  cer- 
tain of  his  barons,  conferred  the  Knighthood  of  the  Bath  upon 
four  of  the  citizens.  On  the  other  hand,  though  Edward's 
gallantries — the  only  vice  which  tended  to  diminish  his  popu- 
larity with  the  sober  burgesses — were  little  worthy  of  his  station, 
his  frank,  joyous  familiarity  with  his  inferiors  was  not  debased 
by  the  buffooneries  that  had  led  to  the  reverses  and  the  awful 
fate  of  two  of  his  royal  predecessors.  There  must  have  been  a 
popular  principle,  indeed,  as  well  as  a  popular  fancy,  involved 
in  the  steady  and  ardent  adherence  which  the  population  of 
London,  in  particular,  and  most  of  the  great  cities,  exhibited 
to  the  person  and  the  cause  of  Edward  IV.  There  was  a 


|6  THE   LAST   OF   THE    BARONS. 

feeling  that  his  reign  was  an  advance,  in  civilization,  upon 
the  monastic  virtues  of  Henry  VI.,  and  the  stern  ferocity 
which  accompanied  the  great  qualities  of  "The  Foreign  Wom- 
an," as  the  people  styled  and  regarded  Henry's  consort, 
Margaret  of  Anjou.  While  thus  the  gifts,  the  courtesy,  and 
the  policy  of  the  young  sovereign  made  him  popular  with 
the  middle  classes,  he  owed  the  allegiance  of  the  more  power- 
ful barons  and  the  favor  of  the  rural  populations  to  a  man  who 
stood  colossal  amidst  the  iron  images  of  the  Age — the  greatest 
and  the  last  of  the  old  Norman  Chivalry — kinglier  in  pride,  in 
state,  in  possessions,  and  in  renown,  than  the  King  himself — 
Richard  Nevile,  Earl  of  Salisbury  and  Warwick. 

This  princely  personage,  in  the  full  vigor  of  his  age,  pos- 
sessed all  the  attributes  that  endear  the  noble  to  the  commons. 
His  valor  in  the  field  was  accompanied  with  a  generosity  rare 
in  the  captains  of  the  time.  He  valued  himself  on  sharing  the 
perils  and  the  hardships  of  his  meanest  soldier.  His  haughti- 
ness to  the  great  was  not  incompatible  with  frank  affability  to 
the  lowly.  His  wealth  was  enormous,  but  it  was  equalled  by 
his  magnificence,  and  rendered  popular  by  his  lavish  hospitality. 
No  less  than  thirty  thousand  persons  are  said  to  have  feasted 
daily  at  the  open  tables  with  which  he  allured  to  his  countless 
castles  the  strong  hands  and  grateful  hearts  of  a  martial  and 
unsettled  population.  More  haughty  than  ambitious,  he  was 
feared  because  he  avenged  all  affront;  and  yet  not  envied,  be- 
cause he  seemed  above  all  favor. 

The  holiday  on  the  archery-ground  was  more  than  usually 
gay,  for  the  rumor  had  spread  from  the  court  to  the  city,  that 
Edward  was  about  to  increase  his  power  abroad,  and  to  repair 
what  he  had  lost  in  the  eyes  of  Europe,  through  his  marriage 
with  Elizabeth  Gray,  by  allying  his  sister  Margaret  with  the 
brother  of  Louis  XI.,  and  that  no  less  a  person  than  the  Earl 
of  Warwick  had  been  the  day  before  selected  as  ambassador  on 
the  important  occasion. 

Various  opinions  were  entertained  upon  the  preference  given 
to  France  in  this  alliance,  over  the  rival  candidate  for  the  hand 
of  the  princess,  viz.,  the  Count  de  Charolois,  afterwards  Charles 
the  Bold,  Duke  of  Burgundy. 

"By'r  Lady,"  said  a  stout  citizen,  about  the  age  of  fifty, 
"but  I  am  not  over  pleased  with  this  French  marriage-making! 
I  would  liefer  the  stout  Earl  were  going  to  France  with  bows 
and  bills,  than  sarcenets  and  satins.  What  will  become  of  our 
trade  with  Flanders — answer  me  that,  Master  Stokton?  The 
House  of  York  is  a  good  house,  and  the  King  is  a  good  king, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  1? 

but  trade  is  trade.  Every  man  must  draw  water  to  his  own 
mill." 

"Hush,  Master  Heyford!"  said  a  small  lean  man  in  a  light- 
gray  surcoat.  "The  King  loves  not  talk  about  what  the  King 
does.  'Tis  ill  jesting  with  lions.  Remember  William  Walker, 
hanged  for  saying  his  son  should  be  heir  to  the  Crown." 

"Troth,"  answered  Master  Heyford,  nothing  daunted,  for 
he  belonged  to  one  of  the  most  powerful  corporations  of  Lon- 
don, "it  was  but  a  scurvy  Pepperer  *  who  made  that  joke.  But 
a  joke  from  a  worshipful  goldsmith,  who  has  money  and  in- 
fluence, and  a  fair  wife  of  his  own,  whom  the  King  himself  has 
been  pleased  to  commend,  is  another  guess  sort  of  matter.  But 
here's  my  grave-visaged  headman,  who  always  contrives  to  pick 
up  the  last  gossip  astir,  and  has  a  deep  eye  into  millstones. 
Why,  ho,  there!  Alwyn — I  say,  Nicholas  Alwyn ! — who  would 
have  thought  to  see  thee  with  that  bow,  a  good  half-ell  taller 
than  thyself?  Methought  thou  wert  too  sober  and  studious  for 
such  man-at-arms  sort  of  devilry." 

"An"  it  please  you,  Master  Heyford,"  answered  the  person 
thus  addressed — a  young  man,  pale  and  lean  though  sinewy  and 
large-boned,  with  a  countenance  of  great  intelligence,  but  a  slow 
and  somewhat  formal  manner  of  speech,  and  a  strong  provincial 
accent — "An"  it  please  you,  King  Edward's  edict  ordains 
every  Englishman  to  have  a  bow  of  his  own  height ;  and  he 
who  neglects  the  shaft  on  a  holiday,  forfeiteth  one  halfpenny 
and  some  honor.  For  the  rest,  methinks  that  the  citizens  of 
London  will  become  of  more  worth  and  potency  every  year ; 
and  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  I  do  not,  though  but  a  hum- 
ble headman  to  your  worshipful  mastership,  help  to  make 
them  so." 

"Why,  that's  well  said,  lad;  but  if  the  Londoners  prosper,  it 
is  because  they  have  nobles  in  their  gipsires,f  not  bows  in  their 
hands." 

"Thinkest  thou,  then,  Master  Heyford,  that  any  king  at  a 
pinch  would  leave  them  the  gipsire,  if  they  could  not  protect 
it  with  the  bow?  That  Age  may  have  gold,  let  not  Youth  de- 
spise iron." 

"Body  o'  me!"  cried  Master  Heyford,  "but  thou  hadst  bet- 
ter curb  in  thy  tongue.  Though  I  have  my  jest — as  a  rich 
man  and  a  corpulent — a  lad  who  has  his  way  to  make  good 
should  be  silent  and — but  he's  gone." 

"Where  hooked  you  up  that  young  jack-fish?"  said  Master 

*  Old  name  for  Grocer. 

t  Gipsire,  a  kind  of  pouch  worn  at  the  girdle. 


l8  THE    LAST    OF    THF.    nARONS. 

Stokton,  the  thin  mercer,  who  had  reminded  the  goldsmith  of 
the  fate  of  the  grocer. 

"Why,  he  was  meant  for  the  cowl,  but  his  mother,  a  widow, 
at  his  own  wish,  let  him  make  choice  of  the  flat  cap.  He  was 
the  best  'prentice  ever  I  had.  IJy  the  blood  of  St.  Thomas,  he 
will  push  his  way  in  good  time ;  he  has  a  head,  Master  Stokton — 
a  head — and  an  ear;  and  a  great  big  pair  of  eyes  always  looking 
out  for  something  to  his  proper  advantage." 

In  the  mean  while,  the  goldsmith's  headman  had  walked  lei- 
surely up  to  the  Archery  Ground,  and  even  in  his  gait  and  walk, 
as  he  thus  repaired  to  a  pastime,  there  was  something  steady, 
staid,  and  business-like. 

The  youths  of  his  class  and  calling  were  at  that  day  very 
different  from  their  equals  in  this.  Many  of  them  the  sons  of 
provincial  retainers,  some  even  of  franklins  and  gentlemen, 
their  childhood  had  made  them  familiar  with  the  splendor  and 
the  sports  of  knighthood;  they  had  learned  to  wrestle,  to  cud- 
gel, to  pitch  the  bar  or  the  quoit,  to  draw  the  bow,  and  to  prac- 
tise the  sword  and  buckler,  before  transplanted  from  the  village 
green  to  the  city  stall.  And,  even  then,  the  constant  broils 
and  wars  of  the  time — the  example  of  their  betters — the  holiday 
spectacle  of  mimic  strife — and,  above  all,  the  powerful  and  cor- 
porate association  they  formed  amongst  themselves — tended  to 
make  them  as  wild,  as  jovial,  and  as  dissolute  a  set  of  young 
fellows  as  their  posterity  are  now  sober,  careful,  and  discreet. 
And  as  Nicholas  Alwyn,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  his  head, 
passed  by,  two  or  three  loud,  swaggering,  bold-looking  groups 
of  apprentices, — their  shaggy  hair  streaming  over  their  shoul- 
ders, their  caps  on  one  side,  their  short  cloaks  of  blue,  torn  or 
patched,  though  still  passably  new,  their  bludgeons  under  their 
arms,  and  their  whole  appearance  and  manner  not  very  dis- 
similar from  the  German  collegians  in  the  last  century — notably 
contrasted  Alwyn's  prim  dress,  his  precise  walk,  and  the  feline 
care  with  which  he  stepped  aside  from  any  patches  of  mire  that 
might  sully  the  soles  of  his  square-toed  shoes  . 

The  idle  apprentices  winked  and  whispered,  and  lolled  out 
their  tongues  at  him  as  he  passed.  "Oh!  but  that  must  be  as 
good  as  a  May-Fair  day — sober  Nick  Alwyn's  maiden  flight  of 
the  shaft.  Hollo,  puissant  archer,  take  care  of  the  goslings 
yonder!  Look  this  way  when  thou  pull'st,  and  then  woe  to 
the  other  side!"  Venting  these  and  many  similar  specimens 
of  the  humor  of  Cockaigne  the  apprentices,  however,  followed 
their  quondam  colleague,  and  elbowed  their  way  into  the  crowd 
gathered  around  the  competitors  at  the  butts ;  and  it  was  at 


TH£    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  19 

this  spot,  commanding  a  view  of  the  whole  space,  that  the  spec 
tator  might  well  have  formed  some  notion  of  the  vast  following 
of  the  House  of  Nevile.  For  everywhere  along  the  front  lines — 
everywhere  in  the  scattered  groups — might  be  seen,  glistening 
in  the  sunlight,  the  armorial  badges  of  that  mighty  family. 
The  Pied  Bull,  which  was  the  proper  cognizance  *  of  the  Nev- 
iles,  was  principally  borne  by  the  numerous  kinsmen  of  Earl 
Warwick,  who  rejoiced  in  the  Nevile  name.  The  Lord  Mon- 
tagu, Warwick's  brother,  to  whom  the  King  had  granted  the 
forfeit  title  and  estates  of  the  Earls  of  Northumberland,  dis- 
tinguished his  own  retainers,  however,  by  the  special  crest  of 
the  ancient  Montagus — a  Gryphon  issuant  from  a  ducal  crown. 
But  far  more  numerous  than  Bull  or  Gryphon  (numerous  as 
either  seemed)  were  the  badges  borne  by  those  who  ranked 
themselves  among  the  peculiar  followers  of  the  great  Earl  of 
Warwick:  the  cognizance  of  the  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff,  which 
he  assumed  in  right  of  the  Beauchamps,  whom  he  represented 
through  his  wife,  the  heiress  of  the  Lords  of  Warwick,  was 
worn  in  the  hats  of  the  more  gentle  and  well-born  clansmen  and 
followers,  while  the  Ragged  Staff  alone  was  worked,  front  and 
back,  on  the  scarlet  jackets  of  his  more  humble  and  personal 
retainers.  It  was  a  matter  of  popular  notice  and  admiration, 
that  in  those  who  bore  these  badges,  as  in  the  wearerb  of  the 
hat  and  staff  of  the  ancient  Spartans,  might  be  traced  a  grave 
loftiness  of  bearing,  as  if  they  belonged  to  another  caste — 
another  race  than  the  herd  of  men.  Near  the  place  where  the 
rivals  for  the  silver  arrow  were  collected,  a  lordly  party  had 
reined  in  their  palfreys  and  conversed  with  each  other,  as  the 
judges  of  the  field  were  marshalling  the  competitors. 

"Who,"  said  one  of  these  gallants,  "who  is  that  comely 
young  fellow  just  below  us,  with  the  Nevile  cognizance  of  the 
Bull  on  his  hat?  .  He  has  the  air  of  one  I  should  know." 

"I  never  saw  him  before,  my  Lord  of  Northumberland,"  an- 
swered one  of  the  gentlemen  thus  addressed,  "but,  pardieu, 
he  who  knows  all  the  Neviles  by  eye,  must  know  half  Eng- 
land." The  Lord  Montagu,  for  though  at  that  moment  invested 
with  the  titles  of  the  Percy,  by  that  name  Earl  Warwick's 
brother  is  known  to  history,  and  by  that,  his  rightful  name,  he 
shall  therefore  be  designated  in  these  pages — the  Lord  Montagu 
smiled  graciously  at  this  remark,  and  a  murmur  through  the 
crowd  announced  that  the  competition  for  the  silver  arrow  was 
about  to  commence.  The  butts,  formed  of  turf,  with  a  small 
white  mark  fastened  to  the  centre  by  a  very  minute  peg,  were 

*  The  Pied  Bull  the  cognizance— the  Dun  Bull's  head  the  crest. 


20  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

placed  apart,  one  at  each  end,  at  the  distance  of  eleven  score 
yards.  At  the  extremity,  where  the  shooting  commenced,  the 
crowd  assembled,  taking  care  to  keep  clear  from  the  opposite 
butt,  as  the  warning  word  of  "Fast"  was  thundered  forth:  but 
eager  was  the  general  murmur,  and  many  were  the  wagers  given 
and  accepted,  as  some  well-known  archer  tried  his  chance. 
Near  the  butt,  that  now  formed  the  target,  stood  the  marker 
with  his  white  wand;  and  the  rapidity  with  which  archer  after 
archer  discharged  his  shaft,  and  then,  if  it  missed,  hurried 
across  the  ground  to  pick  it  up  (for  arrows  were  dear  enough 
not  to  be  lightly  lost),  amidst  the  jeers  and  laughter  of  the  by- 
standers, was  highly  animated  and  diverting.  As  yet,  however, 
no  marksman  had  hit  the  white,  though  many  had  gone  close  to 
it, when  Nicholas  Alwyn  stepped  forward;  and  there  was  some- 
thing so  un-warlike  in  his  whole  air,  so  prim  in  his  gait,  so  care- 
ful in  his  deliberate  survey  of  the  shaft,  and  his  precise  adjust- 
ment of  the  leathern  gauntlet  that  protected  the  arm  from  the 
painful  twang  of  the  string,  that  a  general  burst  of  laughter  from 
the  bystanders  attested  their  anticipation  of  a  signal  failure. 

'  'Fore  heaven!"  said  Montagu,  "he  handles  his  bow  an*  it 
were  a  yard  measure.  One  would  think  he  were  about  to  bar- 
gain for  the  bowstring,  he  eyes  it  so  closely." 

"And  now,"  said  Nicholas,  slowly  adjusting  the  arrow,  "a 
shot  for  the  honor  of  old  Westmoreland!"  And  as  he  spoke, 
the  arrow  sprang  gallantly  forth,  and  quivered  in  the  very 
heart  of  the  white.  There  was  a  general  movement  of  sur- 
prise among  the  spectators,  as  the  marker  thrice  shook  his 
wand  over  his  head.  But  Alywn,  as  indifferent  to  their  respect 
as  he  had  been  to  their  ridicule,  turned  round  and  said,  with 
a  significant  glance  at  the  silent  nobles:  "We  springals  of 
London  can  take  care  of  our  own,  if  need  be." 

"These  fellows  wax  insolent.  Our  good  King  spoils  them," 
said  Montagu  with  a  curl  of  his  lip.  "I  wish  some  young 
squire  of  gentle  blood  would  not  disdain  a  shot  for  the  Nevile 
against  the  craftsman.  How  say  you,  fair  sir?"  And,  with  a 
princely  courtesy  of  mien  and  smile,  Lord  Montagu  turned  to 
the  young  man  he  had  noticed,  as  wearing  the  cognizance  of 
the  First  House  in  England.  The  bow  was  not  the  customary 
weapon  of  the  well-born ;  but  still,  in  youth,  its  exercise  formed 
one  of  the  accomplishments  of  the  future  knight,  and  even 
princes  did  not  disdain,  on  a  popular  holiday,  to  match  a  shaft 
against  the  yeoman's  cloth-yard.*  The  young  man  thus  ad- 

*  At  a  later  period,  Henry  VIII.  was  a  match  for  the  best  bowman  in  his  kingdom.     His 
accomplishment  wa»  hereditary,  and  distinguished  alike  his  wise  father  and  his  pious  son. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  21 

dressed,  and  whose  honest,  open,  handsome,  hardy  face  augured 
a  frank  and  fearless  nature,  bowed  his  head  in  silence,  and  then 
slowly  advancing  to  the  umpires  craved  permission  to  essay  his 
skill,  and  to  borrow  the  loan  of  a  shaft  and  bow.  Leave  given 
and  the  weapons  lent — as  the  young  gentleman  took  his  stand, 
his  comely  person,  his  dress,  of  a  better  quality  than  that  of  the 
competitors  hitherto,  and,  above  all,  the  Nevile  badge  worked 
in  silver  on  his  hat,  diverted  the  general  attention  from  Nicho- 
las Alwyn.  A  mob  is  usually  inclined  to  aristocratic  predilec- 
tions, and  a  murmur  of  goodwill  and  expectation  greeted  him, 
when  he  put  aside  the  gauntlet  offered  to  him,  and  said:  "In 
my  youth  I  was  taught  so  to  brace  the  bow  that  the  string 
should  not  touch  the  arm ;  and  though  eleven  score  yards  be 
but  a  boy's  distance,  a  good  archer  will  lay  his  body  into  his 
bow  *  as  much  as  if  he  were  to  hit  the  blanc  four  hundred  yards 
away." 

"A  tall  fellow  this!"  said  Montagu;  "and  one,  I  wot, 
from  the  North,"  as  the  young  gallant  fitted  the  shaft  to  the 
bow.  And  graceful  and  artistic  was  the  attitude  he  assumed, 
the  head  slightly  inclined,  the  feet  firmly  planted,  the  left  a 
little  in  advance,  and  the  stretched  sinews  of  the  bow-hand 
alone  evincing  that  into  that  grasp  was  pressed  the  whole 
strength  of  the  easy  and  careless  frame.  The  public  expectation 
was  not  disappointed :  the  youth  performed  the  feat  considered 
of  all  the  most  dexterous;  his  arrow,  disdaining  the  white  mark, 
struck  the  small  peg  which  fastened  it  to  the  butts,  and  which 
seemed  literally  invisible  to  the  bystanders. 

"Holy  St.  Dunstan!  there's  but  one  man  who  can  beat  me 
in  that  sort  that  I  know  of,"  muttered  Nicholas,  "and  I  little 
expected  to  see  him  take  a  bite  out  of  his  own  hip."  With 
that  he  approached  his  successful  rival. 

"Well,  Master  Marmaduke,"  said  he,  "it  is  many  a  year 
since  you  showed  me  that  trick  at  your  father,  Sir  Guy's — 
God  rest  him!  But  I  scarce  take  it  kind  in  you  to  beat  your 
o\vn  countryman  ! ' ' 

"Beshrew  me!"  cried  the  youth,  and  his  cheerful  features 
brightened  into  hearty  and  cordial  pleasure  "but  if  I  see  in 
thee,  as  it  seems  to  me,  my  old  friend  and  foster-brother,  Nick 
Alwyn,  this  is  the  happiest  hour  I  have  known  for  many  a  day. 
But  stand  back  and  let  me  look  at  thee,  man !  Thou !  thou  a 
tame  London  trader!  Ha!  ha! — is  it  possible?" 

"  My  father  taught  me  to  lay  my  body  in  my  bow,"  etc.,  said  Latimer,  in  his  well- 
known  sermon  before  Edward  VI. — IS4Q.  The  Bishop  also  herein  observes,  that  "it  is 
best  to  give  the  bow  so  much  bending  that  the  string  need  never  touch  the  arm.  This,"  h7 
adds,  "  is  practised  by  many  good  archers  with  whom  I  am  acquainted." 


22  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"Hcut,  Master  Marmaduke,"  answered  Nicholas,  "every 
crow  thinks  his  own  bairn  bonniest,  as  they  say  in  the  North. 
We  will  talk  of  this  anon,  an'  thou  wilt  honor  me.  I  suspect 
the  archery  is  over  now.  Few  will  think  to  mend  that  shot." 

And  here,  indeed,  the  umpires  advanced  and  their  chief — an 
old  mercer,  who  had  once  borne  arms,  and  indeed  been  a  volun- 
teer at  the  battle  of  Teuton — declared  that  the  contest  was  over, 
"Unless,"  he  added,  in  the  spirit  of  a  lingering  fellow-feeling 
with  the  Londoner,  "this  young  fellow,  whom  I  hope  to  see  an 
alderman  one  of  these  days,  will  demand  another  shot,  for  as 
yet  there  hath  been  but  one  prick  each  at  the  butts." 

"Nay,  master,"  returned  Alwyn,  "I  have  met  with  my  bet- 
ters— and,  after  all,"  he  added  indifferently,  "the  silver  arrow, 
though  a  pretty  bauble  enough,  is  over  light  in  its  weight." 

"Worshipful  sir,"  said  the  young  Nevile,  with  equal  gener- 
osity, "I  cannot  accept  the  prize  for  a  mere  trick  of  the  craft — 
the  blanc  was  already  disposed  of  by  Master  Alwyn's  arrow. 
Moreover,  the  contest  was  intended  for  the  Londoners,  and  I 
am  but  an  interloper — beholden  to  their  courtesy  for  a  practice 
of  skill,  and  even  the  loan  of  a  bow — wherefore  the  silver  arrow 
be  given  to  Nicholas  Alwyn." 

"That  may  not  be,  gentle  sir,"  said  the  umpire,  extending 
the  prize.  "Sith  Alwyn  vails  of  himself,  it  is  thine,  by  might 
and  by  right." 

The  Lord  Montagu  had  not  been  inattentive  to  this  dialogue, 
and  he  now  said,  in  a  loud  tone  that  silenced  the  crowd: 
"Young  Badgeman,  thy  gallantry  pleases  me  no  less  than  thy 
skill.  Take  the  arrow,  for  thou  hast  won  it;  but,  as  thou 
seemest  a  newcomer,  it  is  right  thou  shouldst  pay  thy  tax  upon 
entry — this  be  my  task.  Come  hither,  I  pray  thee,  good  sir," 
and  the  nobleman  graciously  beckoned  to  the  mercer;  "be  these 
five  nobles  the  prize  of  whatever  Londoner  shall  acquit  him- 
self best  in  the  bold  English  combat  of  quarter-staff,  and  the 
prize  be  given  in  this  young  archer's  name.  Thy  name, 
youth?" 

''Marmaduke  Nevile,  good  my  lord." 

Montagu  smiled,  and  the  umpire  withdrew  to  make  the  an- 
nouncement to  the  bystanders.  The  proclamation  was  received 
with  a  shout  that  traversed  from  group  to  group,  and  line  to 
line,  more  hearty  from  the  love  and  honor  attached  to  the  name 
of  Nevile  than  even  from  a  sense  of  the  gracious  generosity  of 
Earl  Warwick's  brother.  One  man  alone,  a  sturdy,  well-knit 
fellow,  in  a  franklin's  Lincoln  broadcloth,  and  with  a  hood  half- 
drawn  over  his  features,  did  not  join  the  popular  applause. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  23 

"These  Yorkists,"  he  muttered,  "know  well  how  to  fool  the 
people." 

Meanwhile,  the  young  Nevile  still  stood  by  the  gilded  stirrup 
of  the  great  noble  who  had  thus  honored  him,  and  contemplated 
him  with  that  respect  and  interest  which  a  youth's  ambition  ever 
feels  for  those  who  have  won  a  name. 

The  Lord  Montagu  bore  a  very  different  character  from  his 
puissant  brother.  Though  so  skilful  a  captain,  that  he  had 
never  been  known  to  lose  a  battle,  his  fame  as  a  warrior  was, 
strange  to  say,  below  that  of  the  great  Earl,  whose  prodigious 
strength  had  accomplished  those  personal  feats  that  dazzled 
the  populace,  and  revived  the  legendary  renown  of  the  earlier 
Norman  knighthood.  The  caution  and  wariness  indeed  which 
Montagu  displayed  in  battle  probably  caused  his  success  as  a 
general,  and  the  injustice  done  to  him  (at  least  by  the  vulgar), 
as  a  soldier.  Rarely  had  Lord  Montagu,  though  his  courage 
was  indisputable,  been  known  to  mix  personally  in  the  affray. 
Like  the  captains  of  modern  times,  he  contented  himself  with 
directing  the  manoeuvres  of  his  men,  and  hence  preserved  that 
inestimable  advantage  of  coldness  and  calculation  which  was 
not  always  characteristic  of  the  eager  hardihood  of  his  brother. 
The  character  of  Montagu  differed  yet  more  from  that  of  the 
Earl  in  peace  than  in  war.  He  was  supposed  to  excel  in  all 
those  supple  arts  of  the  courtier,  which  Warwick  neglected  or 
despised ;  and  if  the  last  was,  on  great  occasions,  the  adviser, 
the  other,  in  ordinary  life,  was  the  companion  of  his  sovereign. 
Warwick  owed  his  popularity  to  his  own  large,  open,  daring, 
and  lavish  nature.  The  subtler  Montagu  sought  to  win,  by  care 
and  pains,  what  the  other  obtained  without  an  effort.  He 
attended  the  various  holiday  meetings  of  the  citizens,  where 
Warwick  was  rarely  seen.  He  was  smooth-spoken  and  cour- 
teous to  his  equals,  and  generally  affable,  though  with  con- 
straint, to  his  inferiors.  He  was  a  close  observer,  and  not  with- 
out that  genius  for  intrigue,  which  in  rude  ages  passes  for  the 
talent  of  a  statesman.  And  yet  in  that  thorough  knowledge  of 
the  habits  and  tastes  of  the  great  mass,  which  gives  wisdom  to 
a  ruler,  he  was  far  inferior  to  the  Earl.  In  common  with  his 
brother,  he  was  gifted  with  the  majesty  of  mien  which  imposes 
on  the  eye,  and  his  port  and  countenance  were  such  as  became 
the  prodigal  expense  of  velvet,  minever,  gold,  and  jewels,  by 
which  the  gorgeous  magnates  of  the  day  communicated  to  their 
appearance  the  arrogant  splendor  of  their  power.  "Young 
gentleman,"  said  the  Earl,  after  eyeing  with  some  attention 
the  comely  archer,  "I  am  pleased  that  you  bear  the  name 


24  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

of  Nevile.  Vouchsafe  to  inform  me  to  what  scion  of  our  house 
we  are  this  day  indebted  for  the  credit  with  which  you  have 
upborne  its  cognizance?" 

"I  fear,"  answered  the  youth  with  a  slight  but  not  un- 
graceful hesitation,  "that  my  Lord  of  Montagu  and  Northum- 
berland will  hardly  forgive  the  presumption  with  which  I  have 
intruded  upon  this  assembly  a  name  borne  by  nobles  so  illus- 
trious, especially  if  it  belong  to  those  less  fortunate  branches  of 
his  family  which  have  taken  a  different  side  from  himself  in 
the  late  unhappy  commotions.  My  father  was  Sir  Guy  Nevile, 
of  Arsdale,  in  Westmoreland." 

Lord  Montagu's  lip  lost  its  gracious  smile;  he  glanced 
quickly  at  the  courtiers  round  him,  and  said  gravely:  "I 
grieve  to  hear  it.  Had  I  known  this,  certes  my  gipsire  had 
still  been  five  nobles  the  richer.  It  becomes  not  one,  fresh 
from  the  favor  of  King  Edward  IV.,  to  show  countenance  to 
the  son  of  a  man,  kinsman  though  he  was,  who  bore  arms  for 
the  usurpers  of  Lancaster.  I  pray  thee,  sir,  to  doff,  hence- 
forth, a  badge  dedicated  only  to  the  service  of  Royal  York. 
No  more,  young  man  ;  we  may  not  listen  to  the  son  of  Sir  Guy 
Nevile — Sirs,  shall  we  ride  to  see  how  the  Londoners  thrive  at 
quarter-staff?" 

With  that,  Montagu,  deigning  no  farther  regard  at  Nevile, 
wheeled  his  palfrey  towards  a  distant  part  of  the  ground,  to 
which  the  multitude  was  already  pressing  its  turbulent  and 
noisy  way. 

"Thou  art  hard  on  thy  namesake,  fair  my  lord,"  said  a 
young  noble,  in  whose  dark  auburn  hair,  aquiline,  haughty  feat- 
ures, spare  but  powerful  frame,  and  inexpressible  air  of  au- 
thority and  command,  were  found  all  the  attributes  of  the 
purest  and  eldest  Norman  race — the  Patricians  of  the  World. 

"Dear  Raoul  de  Fulke,"  returned  Montagu  coldly,  "when 
thou  hast  reached  my  age  of  thirty  and  four,  thou  wilt  learn 
that  no  man's  fortune  casts  so  broad  a  shadow  as  to  shelter 
from  the  storm  the  victims  of  a  fallen  cause." 

"Not  so  would  say  thy  bold  brother,"  answered  Raoul  de 
Fulke,  with  a  slight  curl  of  his  proud  lip.  "And  I  hold,  with 
him,  that  no  king  is  so  sacred  that  we  should  render  to  his 
resentments  our  own  kith  and  kin.  God's  wot,  whosoever 
wears  the  badge,  and  springs  from  the  stem,  of  Raoul  de 
Fulke,  shall  never  find  me  question  overmuch  whether  his 
father  fought  for  York  or  Lancaster." 

"Hush,  rash  babbler!"  said  Montagu,  laughing  gently; 
"what  would  King  Edward  say  if  this  speech  reached  his  ears? 


THE    LAST    OF    THL    BARONS.  2$ 

Our  friend,"  added  the  courtier,  turning  to  the  rest,  "in  vain 
would  bar  the  tide  of  change;  and  in  this  our  New  England 
begirt  with  new  men  and  new  fashions,  affect  the  feudal  bar- 
onage of  the  worn-out  Norman.  But  thou  art  a  gallant  knight, 
De  Fulke,  though  a  poor  courtier." 

"The  saints  keep  me  so!"  returned  De  Fulke.  "From 
over-gluttony,  from  over  wine-bibbing,  from  cringing  to  a 
king's  leman,  from  quaking  at  a  king's  frown,  from  unbonnet- 
ting  to  a  greasy  mob,  from  marrying  an  old  crone  for  vile  gold, 
may  the  saints  ever  keep  Raoul  de  Fulke  and  his  sons ! 
Amen!" 

This  speech,  in  which  every  sentence  struck  its  stinging  sat- 
ire into  one  or  other  of  the  listeners,  was  succeeded  by  an  awk- 
ward silence,  which  Montagu  was  the  first  to  break. 

"Pardieu!"  he  said,  "when  did  Lord  Hastings  leave  us? 
And  what  fair  face  can  have  lured  the  truant?" 

"He  left  us  suddenly  on  the  archery  ground,"  answered  the 
young  Lovell.  "But  as  well  might  we  track  the  breeze  to  the 
rose,  as  Lord  William's  sigh  to  maid  or  matron." 

While  thus  conversed  the  cavaliers,  and  their  plumes  waved, 
and  their  mantles  glittered  along  the  broken  ground,  Marma- 
duke  Nevile's  eye  pursued  the  horsemen  with  all  that  bitter 
feeling  of  wounded  pride  and  impotent  resentment  with  which 
Youth  regards  the  first  insult  it  receives  from  Power. 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE    BROKEN    CITTERN. 

ROUSING  himself  from  his  indignant  reverie,  Marmaduke 
Nevile  followed  one  of  the  smaller  streams  into  which  the 
crowd  divided  itself  on  dispersing  from  the  archery-ground, 
and  soon  found  himself  in  a  part  of  the  holiday  scene  appro- 
priated to  diversions  less  manly,  but  no  less  characteristic  of 
the  period,  than  those  of  the  staff  and  arrow.  Beneath  an  awn- 
ing, under  which  an  itinerant  landlord  dispensed  cakes  and  ale, 
the  humorous  Bourdour  (the  most  vulgar  degree  of  minstrel,  or 
rather  tale-teller),  collected  his  clownish  audience,  while  seated 
by  themselves — apart,  but  within  hearing — two  harpers,  in  the 
King's  livery,  consoled  each  other  for  the  popularity  of  their 
ribald  rival,  by  wise  reflections  on  the  base  nature  of  common 
folk.  Farther  on,  Marmaduke  started  to  behold  what  seemed 
to  him  the  heads  of  .giants  at  least  six  yards  high;  but  on  a 
nearer  approach  these  formidable  apparitions  resolved  them- 
selves to  a  company  of  dancers  upon  stilts.  There,  one  jocu- 


*6  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 


exhibited  the  antics  of  his  well-tutored  ape;  there,  another 
eclipsed  the  attractions  of  the  baboon  by  a  marvellous  horse, 
that  beat  a  tabor  with  his  fore-feet  ;  there  the  more  sombre 
Tregetour^  before  a  table  raised  upon  a  lofty  stage,  promised  to 
cut  off  and  refix  the  head  of  a  sad-faced  little  boy,  who,  in  the 
meantime,  was  preparing  his  mortal  frame  for  the  operation  by 
apparently  larding  himself  with  sharp  knives  and  bodkins. 
Each  of  these  wonder-dealers  found  his  separate  group  of  ad- 
mirers, and  great  was  the  delight  and  loud  the  laughter  in  the 
pastime-ground  of  old  Cockaigne. 

While  Marmaduke,  bewildered  by  this  various  bustle,  stared 
around  him,  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  young  maiden,  in  evident 
distress,  struggling  in  vain  to  extricate  herself  from  a  troop 
of  timbrel  girls,  or  tymbesteres  (as  they  were  popularly  called), 
who  surrounded  her  with  mocking  gestures,  striking  their  in- 
struments to  drown  her  remonstrances,  and  dancing  about  her 
in  a  ring  at  every  effort  towards  escape.  The  girl  was  mod- 
estly attired,  as  one  of  the  humbler  ranks,  and  her  wimple  in 
much  concealed  her  countenance,  but  there  was,  despite  her 
strange  and  undignified  situation  and  evident  alarm,  a  sort  of 
quiet,  earnest  self-possession  —  an  effort  to  hide  her  terror,  and 
to  appeal  to  the  better  and  more  womanly  feelings  of  her  per- 
secutors. In  the  intervals  of  silence  from  their  clamor,  her 
voice,  though  low,  clear,  well-tuned,  and  impressive,  forcibly 
arrested  the  attention  of  young  Nevile  ;  for  at  that  day,  even 
more  than  this  (sufficiently  apparent,  as  it  now  is),  there  was  a 
marked  distinction  in  the  intonation,  the  accent,  the  modulation 
of  voice  between  the  better  bred  and  better  educated,  and  the 
inferior  classes.  But  this  difference,  so  ill  according  with  her 
dress  and  position,  only  served  to  heighten  more  the  bold  inso- 
lence of  the  musical  Bacchantes,  who,  indeed,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  sober,  formed  the  most  immoral  nuisance  attendant  on  the 
sports  of  the  time,  and  whose  hardy  license  and  peculiar  sister- 
hood might  tempt  the  antiquarian  to  search  for  their  origin 
amongst  the  relics  of  ancient  Paganism.  And  now,  to  increase 
the  girl's  distress,  some  half-score  of  dissolute  apprentices  and 
journeymen  suddenly  broke  into  the  ring  of  the  Maenads,  and 
were  accosting  her  with  yet  more  alarming  insults,  when  Mar- 
maduke, pushing  them  aside,  strode  to  her  assistance.  "How 
now,  ye  lewd  varlets!  ye  make  me  blush  for  my  countrymen 
in  the  face  of  day  !  Are  these  the  sports  of  merry  England  — 
these  your  manly  contests  —  to  strive  which  can  best  affront 
a  poor  maid?  Out  on  ye,  cullions  and  bezonians!  Cling  to 
me,  gentle  donzell,  and  fear  not.  Whither  shall  I  lead  thee?" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  27 

The  apprentices  were  not,  however,  so  easily  daunted.  Two 
of  them  approached  to  the  rescue,  flourishing  their  bludgeons 
about  their  heads  with  formidable  gestures:  "Ho,  ho!"  cried 
one,  "what  right,  hast  thou  to  step  between  the  hunters  and  the 
doe?  The  young  quean  is  too  much  honored  by  a  kiss  from  a 
bold  'prentice  of  London." 

Marmaduke  stepped  back,  and  drew  the  small  dagger  which 
then  formed  the  only  habitual  weapon  of  a  gentleman.*  This 
movement,  discomposing  his  mantle,  brought  the  silver  arrow 
he  had  won  (which  was  placed  in  his  girdle)  in  full  view  of  the 
assailants.  At  the  same  time  they  caught  sight  of  the  badge 
on  his  hat.  These  intimidated  their  ardor  more  than  the 
drawn  poniard. 

"A  Nevile!"  said  one,  retreating.  "And  the  jolly  marks- 
man who  beat  Nick  Alwyn,"  said  the  other,  lowering  his 
bludgeon,  and  doffing  his  cap.  "Gentle  sir,  forgive  us,  we 
knew  not  your  quality.  But  as  for  the  girl — your  '  gallantry 
misleads  you." 

"The  Wizard's  daughter!  ha!  ha! — the  Imp  of  Darkness !" 
screeched  the  timbrel  girls,  tossing  up  their  instruments,  and 
catching  them  again  on  the  points  of  their  fingers.     "She  has 
enchanted  him  with  her  glamour.     Foul  is  fair !   Foul  fair  thee, 
young  springal,  if  thou  go  to  the  nets.     Shadow  and  goblin  to 
goblin   and  shadow!     Flesh  and  blood  to  blood  and  flesh!" 
and  dancing  round  him,  with  wanton  looks  and  bare  arms,  and 
gossamer  robes  that  brushed  him  as  they  circled,  they  chanted : 
"  Come  kiss  me,  my  darling, 
Warm  kisses  I  trade  for  ; 
Wine,  music,  and  kisses — 
What  else  was  life  made  for  !  " 

With  some  difficulty,  and  with  a  disgust  which  was  not  alto- 
gether without  a  superstitious  fear  of  the  strange  words  and 
the  outlandish  appearance  of  these  loathsome  Dalilahs,  Marma- 
duke broke  from  the  ring  with  his  new  charge;  and  in  a  few 
moments  the  Nevile  and  the  maiden  found  themselves,  unmo- 
lested and  unpursued,  in  a  deserted  quarter  of  the  ground; 
but  still  the  scream  of  the  timbrel  girls,  as  they  hurried,  wheel- 
ing and  dancing,  into  the  distance,  was  borne  ominously  to  the 
young  man's  ear:  "Ha,  ha!  the  witch  and  her  lover!  Foul  is 
fair! — foul  is  fair!  Shadow  to  goblin,  goblin  to  shadow — and 
the  Devil  will  have  his  own!" 

"And  what  mischance,  my  poor  girl,"  asked  the  Nevile 
soothingly,  "brought  thee  into  such  evil  company?" 

*  Swords  were  not  worn,  in  peace,  at  that  period. 


«8  THE    LAST    OF    THE    &ARONS. 

"I  know  not,  fair  sir,"  said  the  girl,  slowly  recovering  her- 
self, "but  my  father  is  poor,  and  I  had  heard  that  on  these 
holiday  occasions  one  who  had  some  slight  skill  on  the  gittern 
might  win  a  few  groats  from  the  courtesy  of  the  bystanders. 
So  I  stole  out  with  my  serving-woman,  and  had  already  got 
more  than  I  dared  hope,  when  those  wicked  timbrel  players 
came  round  me,  and  accused  me  of  taking  the  money  from 
them.  And  then  they  called  an  officer  of  the  ground,  who 
asked  me  my  name  and  holding;  so  when  I  answered,  they 
called  my  father  a  wizard,  and  the  man  broke  my  poor  git- 
tern — see!" —  and  she  held  it  up,  with  innocent  sorrow  in  her 
eyes,  yet  a  half  smile  on  her  lips-— "and  they  soon  drove  poor 
old  Madge  from  my  side,  and  I  knew  no  more  till  you,  wor- 
shipful sir,  took  pity  on  me." 

"But  why,"  asked  the  Nevile,  "did  they  give  to  your  father 
so  unholy  a  name?" 

"Alas,  sir!  he  is  a  great  scholar,  who  has  spent  his  means  in 
studying  what  he  says  will  one  day  be  of  good  to  the  people." 

"Humph!"  said  Marmaduke,  who  had  all  the  superstitions 
of  his  time,  who  looked  upon  a  scholar,  unless  in  the  Church, 
with  mingled  awe  and  abhorrence,  and  who,  therefore,  was  but 
ill  satisfiedjpvith  the  girl's  artless  answer: 

"Humph.!  your  father — but" — checking  what  he  was  about, 
perhaps  harshly,  to  say,  as  he  caught  the  bright  eyes  and  arch, 
intelligent  face  lifted  to  his  own — "but  it  is  hard  to  punish  the 
child  for  the  father's  errors." 

"Errors,  sir!"  repeated  the  damsel  proudly,  and  with  a 
slight  disdain  in  her  face  and  voice.  "But  yes,  wisdom  is 
ever,  perhaps,  the  saddest  error!" 

This  remark  was  of  an  order  superior  in  intellect  to  those 
which  had  preceded  it:  it  contrasted  with  the  sternness  of 
experience  the  simplicity  of  the  child ;  and  of  such  contrast, 
indeed,  was  that  character  made  up.  For  with  a  sweet,  an 
infantine  change  of  tone  and  countenance,  she  added,  after  a 
short  pause:  "They  took  the  money! — the  gittern — see,  they 
left  that  when  they  had  made  it  useless." 

"I  cannot  mend  the  gittern,  but  I  can  refill  the  gipsire," 
said  Marmaduke. 

The  girl  colored  deeply.     "Nay,  sir,  to  earn  is  not  to  beg." 

Marmaduke  did  not  heed  this  answer,  for  as  they  were  now 
passing  by  the  stunted  trees,  under  which  sate  several  revellers, 
who  looked  up  at  him  from  their  cups  and  tankards,  some  with 
sneering,  some  with  grave  looks,  he  began,  more  seriously  than 
in  his  kindly  impulse  he  had  hitherto  done,  to  consider  the  ap- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  29 

pearance  it  must  have,  to  be  thus  seen  walking,  in  public,  with 
a  girl  of  inferior  degree,  and  perhaps  doubtful  repute.  Even 
in  our  own  day,  such  an  exhibition  would  be,  to  say  the  least, 
suspicious,  and  in  that  day,  when  ranks  and  classes  were  di- 
vided with  iron  demarcations,  a  young  gallant,  whose  dress 
bespoke  him  of  gentle  quality,  with  one  of  opposite  sex,  and 
belonging  to  the  humbler  orders,  in  -broad  day  too,  was  far 
more  open  to  censure.  The  blood  mounted  to  his  brow,  and 
halting  abruptly,  he  said,  in  a  dry  and  altered  voice:  "My 
good  damsel,  you  are  now,  I  think,  out  of  danger;  it  would  ill 
beseem  you,  so  young  and  so  comely,  to  go  further  with  one 
not  old  enough  to  be  your  protector ;  so,  in  God's  name,  depart 
quickly,  and  remember  me  when  you  buy  your  new  gittern — 
poor  child!"  So  saying,  he  attempted  to  place  a  piece  of 
money  in  her  hand.  She  put  it  back,  and  the  coin  fell  on  the 
ground. 

"Nay,  this  is  foolish,"  said  he. 

"Alas,  sir!"  said  the  girl  gravely.  "I  see  well  that  you  are 
ashamed  of  your  goodness.  But  my  father  begs  not.  And 
once — but  that  matters  not." 

"Once  what?"  persisted  Marmaduke,  interested  in  her 
manner,  in  spite  of  himself.  ^ 

"Once,"  said  the  girl,y  drawing  herself  up,  and\vith  an  ex- 
pression that  altered  the  whole  character  of  her  face — "the  beg- 
ger  ate  at  my  father's  gate.  He  is  a  born  gentleman  and  a 
knight's  son." 

"And  what  reduced  him  thus?" 

"I  have  said,"  answered  the  girl  simply,  yet  with  the  same 
half-scorn  on  her  lip  that  it  had  before  betrayed — "he  is  a 
scholar,  and  thought  more  of  others  than  himself." 

"I  never  saw  any  good  come  to  a  gentleman  from  those  ac- 
cursed books,"  said  the  Nevile;  "fit  only  for  monks  and  shave- 
lings. But  still,  for  your  father's  sake,  though  I  am  ashamed 
of  the  poorness  of  the  gift — " 

"No — God  be  with  you,  sir,  and  reward  you."  She  stopped 
short,  drew  her  wimple  round  her  face,  and  was  gone.  Nevile 
felt  an  uncomfortable  sensation  of  remorse  and  disapproval  at 
having  suffered  her  to  quit  him  while  there  was  yet  any  chance 
of  molestation  or  annoyance,  and  his  eye  followed  her  till  a 
group  of  trees  veiled  her  from  his  view. 

The  young  maiden  slackened  her  pace  as  she  found  herself 
alone  under  the  leafless  bought  of  the  dreary  pollards — a  deso- 
late spot,  made  melancholy,  by  dull  swamps,  half-overgrown 
with  rank  verdure,  through  which  forced  its  clogged  way  the 


30  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

shallow  Brook  that  now  gives  its  name  (though  its  waves  are 
seen  no  more)  to  one  of  the  main  streets  in  the  most  polished 
quarter  of  the  metropolis.  Upon  a  mound  formed  by  the 
gnarled  roots  of  the  dwarfed  and  gnome-like  oak,  she  sat 
down,  and  wept.  In  our  earlier  years,  most  of  us  may  remem- 
ber, that  there  was  one  day  which  made  an  epoch  in  life — the 
day  that  separated  Childhood  from  Youth;  for  that  day  seems 
not  to  come  gradually,  but  to  be  a  sudden  crisis,  an  abrupt 
revelation.  The  buds  of  the  heart  open  to  close  no  more. 
Such  a  day  was  this  in  that  girl's  fate.  But  the  day  was  not 
yet  gone!  That  morning,  when  she  dressed  for  her  enter- 
prise of  filial  love,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  Sibyll  Warner 
felt  that  she  was  fair — who  shall  say,  whether  some  innocent, 
natural  vanity  had  not  blended  with  the  deep,  devoted  earnest- 
ness, which  saw  no  shame  in  the  act  by  which  the  child  could 
aid  the  father?  Perhaps  she  might  have  smiled  to  listen  to  old 
Madge's  praises  of  her  winsome  face,  old  Madge's  predictions 
that  the  face  and  the  gittern  would  not  lack  admirers  on  the  gay 
ground.  Perhaps  some  indistinct,  vague  forethoughts  of  the 
Future  to  which  the  sex  will  deem  itself  to  be  born,  might  have 
caused  the  cheek — no,  not  to  blush,  but  to  take  a  rosier  hue, 
and  the  pulse  to  beat  quicker,  she  knew  not  why.  At  all 
events,  to  that  ground  went  the  young  Sibyll,  cheerful,  and 
almost  happy,  in  her  inexperience  of  actual  life,  and  sure,  at 
least,  that  youth  and  innocence  sufficed  to  protect  from  insult. 
And  now,  she  sat  down  under  the  leafless  tree,  to  weep ;  and 
in  those  bitter  tears,  childhood  itself  was  laved  from  her  soul 
forever. 

"What  ailest  thou,  maiden?"  asked  a  deep  voic«;  and  she 
felt  a  hand  laid  lightly  on  her  shoulder  She  looked  up  in  ter- 
ror and  confusion,  but  it  was  no  form  or  face  to  inspire  alarm 
that  met  her  eye.  It  was  a  cavalier,  holding  by  the  rein  a 
horse  richly  caparisoned,  and  though  his  dress  was  plainer  and 
less  exaggerated  than  that  usually  worn  by  one  of  rank,  its  ma- 
terials were  those  which  the  sumptuary  laws  (constantly  broken, 
indeed,  as  such  laws  ever  must  be),  confined  to  nobles. 
Though  his  surcoat  was  but  of  cloth,  and  the  color  dark  and 
sober,  it  was  woven  in  foreign  looms — an  unpatriotic  luxury, 
above  the  degree  of  knight — and  edged  deep  with  the  costliest 
sables.  The  hilt  of  the  dagger,  suspended  round  his  breast, 
was  but  of  ivory,  curiously  wrought,  but  the  scabbard  was  sown 
with  large  pearls.  For  the  rest,  the  stranger  was  of  ordinary 
stature,  well  knit,  and  active  rather  than  powerful,  and  of  that 
age  (about  thirty-five)  which  may  be  called  the  second  prime  of 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  31 

man.  His  face  was  far  less  handsome  than  Marmaduke  Nev- 
ile's,  but  infinitely  more  expressive,  both  of  intelligence  and 
command,  the  features  straight  and  sharp,  the  complexion  clear 
and  pale,  and  under  the  bright  gray  eyes  a  dark  shade  spoke 
either  of  dissipation  or  of  thought. 

"What  ailest  thou,  maiden?  Weepest  thou  some  faithless 
lover?  Tush!  love  renews  itself  in  youth,  as  flower  succeeds 
flower  in  spring." 

Sibyll  made  no  reply;  she  rose,  and  moved  a  few  paces,  then 
arrested  her  steps,  and  looked  around  her.  She  had  lost  all 
clue  to  her  way  homeward,  and  she  saw  with  horror,  in  the 
distance,  the  hateful  timbrel  girls,  followed  by  the  rabble,  and 
weaving  their  strange  dances  towards  the  spot. 

"Dost  thou  fear  me,  child?  There  is  no  cause,"  said  the 
stranger,  following  her.  "Again,  I  say,  'What  ailest  thou'?" 

This  time  his  voice  was  that  of  command,  and  the  poor  girl 
involuntarily  obeyed  it.  She  related  her  mjsfortunes,  her  per- 
secution by  the  tymbesteres,  her  escape— Blanks  to  the  Nev- 
ile's  courtesy — her  separation  from  her  attendant,  and  her 
uncertainty  as  to  the  way  she  should  pursue. 

The  nobleman  listened  with  interest :  he  was  a  man  sated 
and  wearied  by  pleasure  and  the  world,,  and  the  evident  inno- 
cence of  Sibyll  was  a  novelty  to  his  experience,  while  the  con- 
trast between  her  language  and  her  dress  moved  his  curiosity. 
"And,"  said  he,  "thy  protector  left  thee,  his  work  half-done — 
fie  on  his  chivalry!  But  I,  donzell,  wear  the  spurs  of  knight- 
hood, and  to  succor  the  distressed  is^a-  duty  my  oath  will  not 
let  me  swerve  from.  I  will  guide  thee  home,  for  I  know  well 
all  the  purlieus  of  this  evil  den  of  London.  Thou  hast  but  to 
name  the  suburb  in  which  thy  father  dwells." 

Sibyll  involuntarily  raised  her  wimple,  lifted  her  beautiful 
eyes  to  the  stranger,  in  bewildered  gratitude  and  surprise. 
Her  childhood  had  passed  in  a  court, — her  eye,  accustomed  to 
rank,  at  once  perceived  the  high  degree  of  the  speaker;  the 
contrast  between  this  unexpected  and  delicate  gallantry,  and 
the  condescending  tone  and  abrupt  desertion  of  Marmaduke, 
affected  her  again  to  tears. 

"Ah,  worshipful  sir!"  she  said  falteringly,  "what  can  re- 
ward thee  for  this  unlooked-for  goodness?" 

"One  innocent  smile,  sweet  virgin! — for  such,  I'll  be  sworn, 
thou  art." 

He  did  not  offer  her  his  hand,  but  hanging  the  gold- 
enamelled  rein  over  his  arm,  walked  by  her  side ;  and  a  few 
words  sufficing  for  his  guidance,  led  her  across  the  ground, 


32  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

through  the  very  midst  of  the  throng.  He  felt  none  of  the 
young  shame,  the  ingenuous  scruples  of  Marmaduke,  at  the 
gaze  he  encountered,  thus  companioned.  But  Sibyll  noted 
that  ever  and  anon  bonnet  and  cap  were  raised  as  they  passed 
along,  and  the  respectful  murmur  of  the  vulgar,  who  had  so 
lately  jeered  her  anguish,  taught  her  the  immeasurable  distance 
in  men's  esteem,  between  poverty  shielded  but  by  virtue,  and 
poverty  protected  by  power. 

But  suddenly  a  gaudy  tinsel  group  broke  through  the  crowd, 
and  wheeling  round  their  path,  the  foremost  of  them  daringly 
approached  the  nobleman,  and  looking  lull  into  his  disdainful 
face,  exclaimed:  "Tradest  thou,  too,  for  kisses?  Ha!  ha! — 
life  is  short — the  witch  is  out-witched  by  thee!  But  witch- 
craft and  death  go  together,  as,  peradventure,  thou  mayest 
learn  at  the  last,  sleek  wooer."  Then  darting  off,  and  head- 
ing her  painted,  tawdry  throng,  the  timbrel  girl  sprung  into 
the  crowd,  and  vanished. 

This  incident  produced  no  effect  upon  the  strong  and  cyni- 
cal intellect  of  the  stranger.  Without  allusion  to  it,  he  con- 
tinued to  converse  with  his  young  companion,  and  artfully  to 
draw  out  her  own  singular  but  energetic  and  gifted  mind.  He 
grew  more  than  interested,  he  was  both  touched  and  surprised. 
His  manner  became  yet  more  respectful,  his  voice  more  sub- 
dued and  soft. 

On  what  hazards  turn  our  fate!  On  that  day — a  little,  and 
Sibyll's  pure,  but  sensitive  heart  had,  perhaps,  been  given  to 
the  young  Nevile.  He  had  defended  and  saved  her;  he  was 
fairer  than  the  stranger,  he  was  more  of  her  own  years,  and 
nearer  to  her  in  station ;  but  in  showing  himself  ashamed  to 
be  seen  with  her,  he  had  galled  her  heart,  and  moved  the  bit- 
ter tears  of  her  pride.  What  had  the  stranger  done?  Noth- 
ing, but  reconciled  the  wounded  delicacy  to  itself ;  and  sud- 
denly he  became  to  her  one  ever  to  be  remembered — wondered 
at — perhaps  more.  They  reached  an  obscure  suburb,  and 
parted  at  the  threshold  of  a  large,  gloomy,  ruinous  house, 
which  Sibyll  indicated  as  her  father's  home. 

The  girl  lingered  before  the  porch;  and  the  stranger  gazed, 
with  the  passionless  admiration  which  some  fair  object  of  art 
produces  on  one  who  has  refined  his  taste,  but  who  has  sur- 
vived enthusiasm,  upon  the  downcast  cheek  that  blushed  be- 
neath his  gaze — "Farewell!"  he  said;  and  the  girl  looked  up 
wistfully.  He  might,  without  vanity,  have  supposed  that  look 
to  imply  what  the  lip  did  not  dare  to  say — "And  shall  we  meet 
no  more?" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  33 

But  he  turned  away,  with  formal  though  courteous  saluta- 
tion ;  and  as  he  remounted  his  steed,  and  rode  slowly  towards 
the  interior  of  the  city,  he  muttered  to  himself,  with  a  melan- 
choly smile  upon  his  lips:  "Now  might  the  grown  infant  make 
to  himself  a  new  toy ;  but  an  innocent  heart  is  a  brittle  thing, 
and  one  false  vow  can  break  it.  Pretty  maiden,  I  like  thee 
well  eno*  not  to  love  thee.  So,  as  my  young  Scotch  minstrel 
sings  and  prays, 

'  Christ  keep  these  birdis  bright  in  bowers, 
Sic  peril  lies  in  paramours  ! '  "  * 

We  must  now  return  to  Marmaduke.  On  leaving  Sibyll, 
and  retracing  his  steps  towards  the  more  crowded  quarter  of  the 
space,  he  was  agreeably  surprised  by  encountering  Nicholas 
Alwyn,  escorted  in  triumph  by  a  legion  of  roaring  apprentices 
from  the  victory  he  had  just  obtained  over  his  competitors  at 
the  quarter-staff. 

When  the  cortege  came  up  to  Marmaduke,  Nicholas  halted, 
and  fronting  his  attendants,  said,  with  the  same  cold  and  for- 
mal stiffness  that  had  characterized  him  from  the  beginning: 
"I  thank  you,  lads,  for  your  kindness.  It  is  your  own  tri- 
umph. All  I  cared  for  was  to  show  that  you  London  boys  are. 
able  to  keep  up  your  credit  in  these  days,  when  there's  little 
luck  in  a  yard  measure,  if  the  same  hand  cannot  bend  a  bow, 
or  handle  cold  steel.  But  the  less  we  think  of  the  strife  when 
we  are  in  the  stall,  the  better  for  our  pouches.  And  so  I  hope 
we  shall  hear  no  more  about  it,  until  I  get  a  ware  of  my  own. 
when  the  more  of  ye  that  like  to  talk  of  such  matters  the  better 
ye  will  be  welcome — always  provided  ye  be  civil  customers, 
who  pay  on  the  nail,  for,  as  the  saw  saith:  'Ell  and  tell  makes 
the  crypt  swell.'  For  the  rest,  thanks  are  due  to  this  brave 
gentleman,  Marmaduke  Nevile,  who,  though  the  son  of  a 
knight-banneret,  who  never  furnished  less  to  the  battlefield  than 
fifty  men-at-arms,  has  condescended  to  take  part  and  parcel  in 
the  sports  of  us  peaceful  London  traders ;  and  if  ever  you  can 
do  him  a  kind  turn — for  turn  and  turn  is  fair  play — why  you 
will,  I  answer  for  it.  And  so  one  cheer  for  old  London,  and 
another  for  Marmaduke  Nevile.  Here  goes!  Hurrah,  my 
lads!"  And  with  this  pithy  address  Nicholas  Alwyn  took  off 
his  cap  and  gave  the  signal  for  the  shouts,  which,  being  duly 

*  A  Scotch  poet,  in  Lord  Hailes's  Collection,  has  the  following  lines  in  the  very  pretty 
poem  called  "  Peril  in  Paramours  ": 

"  Wherefore  I  pray,  in  termys  short, 
Christ  keep  these  birdis  bright  in  bowers 
Fra  false  lovers  and  their  disport, 
Sic  peril  lies  in  paramours." 


34  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

performed,  he  bowed  stiffly  to  his  companions,  who  departed 
with  a  hearty  laugh,  and  coming  to  the  side  of  Nevile,  the  two 
walked  on  to  a  neighboring  booth,  where,  under  a  rude  awn- 
ing, and  over  a  flagon  of  clary,  they  were  soon  immersed  in  the 
confidential  communications  each  had  to  give  and  receive. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  TRADER  AND  THE  GENTLE;  OR  THE  CHANGING  GEN- 
ERATION. 

"No,  my  dear  foster-brother, "  said  the  Nevile,  "I  do  not 
yet  comprehend  the  choice  you  have  made.  You  were  reared 
and  brought  up  with  such  careful  book-lere,  not  only  to  read 
and  to  write — the  which,  save  the  mark !  I  hold  to  be  labor 
eno' — but  chop  Latin  and  logic  and  theology  with  St.  Aristotle 
(is  not  that  his  hard  name?)  into  the  bargain,  and  all  because 
you  had  an  uncle  of  high  note  in  Holy  Church.  I  cannot  say  I 
would  be  a  shaveling  myself;  but  surely  a  monk,  with  the  hope 
of  preferment,  is  a  nobler  calling  to  a  lad  of  spirit  and  ambi- 
tion than  to  stand  out  at  a  door  and  cry:  'Buy,  buy' — 'What 
d'ye  lack' — to  spend  youth  as  a  Flat-cap,  and  drone  out  man- 
hood in  measuring  cloth,  hammering  metals,  or  weighing  out 
spices?" 

"Fair  and  softly,  Master  Marmaduke,"  said  Alwyn,  "you 
will  understand  me  better  anon.  My  uncle,  the  sub-prior, 
died — some  say  of  austerities,  others  of  ale — that  matters  not ; 
he  was  a  learned  man  and  a  cunning.  'Nephew  Nicholas,' 
said  he  on  his  death-bed,  'think  twice  before  you  tie  yourself 
up  to  the  cloister;  it's  ill  leaping  nowadays  in  a  sackcloth  bag. 
If  a  pious  man  be  moved  to  the  cowl  by  holy  devotion,  there  is 
nothing  to  be  said  on  the  subject ;  but  if  he  take  to  the  Church 
as  a  calling,  and  wish  to  march  ahead  like  his  fellows,  these 
times  show  him  a  prettier  path  to  distinction.  The  nobles  be- 
gin to  get  the  best  things  for  themselves:  and  a  learned  monk, 
if  he  is  the  son  of  a  yeoman,  cannot  hope,  without  a  speciality 
of  grace,  to  become  abbot  or  bishop.  The  King,  whoever  he 
be,  must  be  so  drained  by  his  wars,  that  he  has  little  land  or 
gold  to  bestow  on  his  favorites ;  but  his  gentry  turn  an  eye  to 
the  temporalities  of  the  Church,  and  the  Church  and  the  King 
wish  to  strengthen  themselves  by  the  gentry.  This  is  not  all; 
there  are  free  opinions  afloat.  The  House  of  Lancaster  has 
lost  ground,  by  its  persecutions  and  burnings.  Men  dare  not 
openly  resist,  but  they  treasure  up  recollections  of  a  fried 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  35 

grandfather,  or  a  roasted  cousin;  recollections  which  have 
done  much  damage  to  the  Henries,  and  will  shake  Holy 
Church  itself  one  of  these  days.  The  Lollards  lie  hid,  but  Lol- 
lardism  will  never  die.  There  is  a  new  class  rising  amain, 
where  a  little  learning  goes  a  great  way,  if  mixed  with  spirit 
and  sense.  Thou  likest  broad  pieces,  and  a  creditable  name — 
go  to  London,  and  be  a  trader.  London  begins  to  decide  who 
shall  wear  the  crown,  and  the  traders  to  decide  what  king  Lon- 
don shall  befriend.  Wherefore,  cut  thy  trace  from  the  clois- 
ter, and  take  thy  road  to  the  shop.'  The  next  day  my  uncle 
gave  up  the  ghost.  They  had  better  clary  than  this  at  the  con- 
vent, I  must  own.  But  every  stone  has  its  flaw!" 

"Yet,"  said  Marmaduke,  "if  you  took  distaste  to  the  cowl, 
from  reasons  that  I  pretend  not  to  judge  of,  but  which  seem 
to  my  poor  head  very  bad  ones,  seeing  that  the  Church  is  as 
mighty  as  ever,  and  King  Edward  is  no  friend  to  the  Lollards, 
and  that  your  uncle  himself  was  at  least  a  sub-prior — " 

"Had  he  been  son  to  a  baron,  he  had  been  a  cardinal,"  in- 
terrupted Nicholas,  '  'for  his  head  was  the  longest  that  ever 
came  out  of  the  North  country.  But  go  on ;  you  would  say 
my  father  was  a  sturdy  yeoman,  and  I  might  have  followed 
his  calling?" 

"You  hit  the  mark,  Master  Nicholas." 

"Hout,  man.  I  crave  pardon  of  your  rank,  Master  Nevile. 
But  a  yeoman  is  born  a  yeoman,  and  he  dies  a  yeoman ;  I 
think  it  better  to  die  Lord  Mayor  of  London ;  and  so  I  craved 
my  mother's  blessing  and  leave,  and  a  part  of  the  old  hyde  has 
been  sold  to  pay  for  the  first  step  to  the  red  gown,  which  I 
need  not  say  must  be  that  of  the  Flat-cap.  I  have  already 
taken  my  degrees,  and  no  longer  wear  blue.  I  am  headman  to 
my  master,  and  my  master  will  be  sheriff  of  London." 

"It  is  a  pity,"  said  the  Nevile,  shaking  his  head;  "you  were 
ever  a  tall,  brave  lad,  and  would  have  made  a  very  pretty 
soldier." 

"Thank  you,  Master  Marmaduke,  but  I  leave  cut  and  thrust 
to  the  gentles.  I  have  seen  eno"  of  the  life  of  a  retainer.  He 
goes  out  on  foot  with  his  shield  and  his  sword,  or  his  bow  and 
his  quiver,  while  sir  knight  sits  on  horseback,  armed  from  the 
crown  to  the  toe,  and  the  arrow  slants  off  from  rider  and  horse, 
as  a  stone  from  a  tree.  If  the  retainer  is  not  sliced  and  carved 
into  mincemeat,  he  comes  home  to  a  heap  of  ashes,  and  a 
handful  of  acres,  harried  and  rivelled  into  a  common ;  sir 
knight  thanks  him  for  his  valor,  but  he  does  not  build  up  his 
house;  sir  knight  gets  a  grant  from  the  king,  or  an  heiress  for 


36  THE   LAST   OF    THE    RARONS. 

his  son,  and  Hob  Yeoman  turns  gisarme  and  bill  into  plough, 
shares.  Tut,  tut,  there's  no  liberty,  no  safety,  no  getting  on, 
for  a  man  who  has  no  right  to  the  gold  spurs,  but  in  the  guild 
of  his  fellows;  and  London  is  the  place  for  a  born  Saxon,  like 
Nicholas  Ahvyn." 

As  the  young  aspirant  thus  uttered  the  sentiments,  which, 
though  others  might  not  so  plainly  avow  and  shrewdly  enforce 
them,  tended  towards  that  slow  revolution,  which,  under  all  the 
stormy  events  that  the  superficial  record  we  call  HISTORY  alone 
deigns  to  enumerate,  was  working  that  great  change  in  the 
thoughts  and  habits  of  the  people — that  impulsion  of  the  provin- 
cials citywards — that  gradual  formation  of  a  class  between 
knight  and  vassal — which  became  first  constitutionally  visible 
and  distinct  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.,  Marmaduke  Nevile, 
inly  half-regretting  and  half-despising  the  reasonings  of  his 
foster-brother,  was  playing  with  his  dagger,  and  glancing  at  his 
silver  arrow. 

"Yet  you  could  still  have  eno'  of  the  tall  yeoman  and  the 
stout  retainer  about  you  to  try  for  this  bauble,  and  to  break 
half  a  dozen  thick  heads  with  your  qu arter- staff !" 

"True,"  said  Nicholas;  "you  must  recollect  we  are  only, 
as  yet,  between  the  skin  and  the  selle — half-trader,  half- 
retainer.  The  old  leaven  will  out:  'Eith  to  learn  the  cat  to 
the  kirn,'  as  they  say  in  the  north.  But  that's  not  all;  a  man, 
to  get  on,  must  win  respect  from  those  who  are  to  jostle  him 
hereafter,  and  it's  good  policy  to  show  those  roystering  young- 
sters that  Nick  Alwyn,  stiff  and  steady  though  he  be,  has  the 
old  English  metal  in  him,  if  it  comes  to  a  pinch;  it's  a  lesson 
to  yon  lords  too,  save  your  quality,  if  they  ever  wish  to  ride 
roughshod  over  our  guilds  and  companies.  But  eno'  of  me — 
Drawer,  another  stoup  of  the  clary.  Now,  gentle  sir,  may  I 
make  bold  to  ask  news  of  yourself?  I  saw,  though  I  spake  not 
before  of  it,  that  my  Lord  Montagu  showed  a  cold  face  to 
his  kinsman.  I  know  something  of  these  great  men,  though  J 
be  but  a  small  one — a  dog  is  no  bad  guide  in  the  city  he  trots 
through." 

"My  dear  foster-brother,"  said  the  Nevile;  "you  had  ever 
more  brains  than  myself,  as  is  meet  that  you  should  have,  since 
you  lay  by  the  steel  casque,  which,  I  take  it,  is  meant  as  a 
substitute  for  us  gentlemen  and  soldiers  who  have  not  so  many 
brains  to  spare;  and  I  will  willingly  profit  by  your  counsels. 
You  must  know,"  he  said,  drawing  nearer  to  the  table,  and  his 
frank,  hardy  face  assuming  a  more  earnest  expression,  "that 
though  my  father,  Sir  Guy,  at  the  instigation  of  his  chief,  the 


THE    LAST    OF   THE    BARONS.  £7 

Earl  of  Westmoreland,  and  of  the  Lord  Nevile,  bore  arms,  at 
the  first,  for  King  Henry — " 

"Hush!   hush!   for  Henry  of  Windsor !" 

"Henry  of  Windsor! — so  be  it!  yet  being  connected,  like 
the  nobles  I  have  spoken  of,  with  the  blood  of  Warwick  and 
Salisbury,  it  was  ever  with  doubt  and  misgiving,  and  rather  in 
the  hope  of  ultimate  compromise  between  both  parties  (which 
the  Duke  of  York's  moderation  rendered  probable),  than  of 
the  extermination  of  either.  But  when,  at  the  battle  of  York, 
Margaret  of  Anjou  and  her  generals  stained  their  victory  by 
cruelties  which  could  not  fail  to  close  the  door  on  all  concilia- 
tion; when  the  infant  son  of  the  Duke  himself  was  murdered, 
though  a  prisoner,  in  cold  blood;  when  my  father's  kinsman, 
the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  was  beheaded  without  trial;  when  the 
head  of  the  brave  and  good  Duke,  who  had  fallen  in  the  field, 
was,  against  all  knightly  and  kinglike  generosity,  mockingly 
exposed,  like  a  dishonored  robber,  on  the  gates  of  York,  my 
father,  shocked  and  revolted,  withdrew  at  once  from  the  army, 
and  slacked  not,  bit  or  spur,  till  he  found  himself  in  his  hall 
at  Arsdale.  His  death,  caused  partly  by  his  travail  and  vexa- 
tion of  spirit,  together  with  his  timely  withdrawal  from  the 
enemy,  preserved  his  name  from  the  attainder  passed  on  the 
Lords  Westmoreland  and  Nevile ;  and  my  eldest  brother,  Sir 
John,  accepted  the  King's  proffer  of  pardon,  took  the  oaths  of 
allegiance  to  Edward,  and  lives  safe,  if  obscure,  in  his  father's 
halls.  Thou  knowest,  my  friend,  that  a  younger  brother  has 
but  small  honor  at  home.  Peradventure,  in  calmer  times,  I 
might  have  bowed  my  pride  to  my  calling,  hunted  my  brother's 
dogs,  flown  his  hawks,  rented  his  keeper's  lodge,  and  gone  to 
my  grave  contented.  But  to  a  young  man,  who,  from  his 
childhood,  had  heard  the  stirring  talk  of  knights  and  captains, 
who  had  seen  valor  and  fortune  make  the  way  to  distinction, 
and  whose  ears,  of  late,  had  been  filled  by  the  tales  of  wander- 
ing minstrels  and  dissours,  with  all  the  gay  wonders  of  Ed- 
ward's court,  such  a  life  soon  grew  distasteful.  My  father,  on 
his  death-bed,  (like  thy  uncle,  the  sub-prior),  encouraged  me 
little  to  follow  his  own  footsteps.  'I  see,'  said  he,  'that  King 
Henry  is  too  soft  to  rule  his  barons,  and  Margaret  too  fierce  to 
conciliate  the  Commons — the  only  hope  of  peace  is  in  the  set- 
tlement of  the  House  of  York.  Wherefore  let  not  thy  father's 
errors  stand  in  the  way  of  thy  advancement' ;  and  therewith 
he  made  his  confessor — for  he  was  no  penman  himself,  the 
worthy  old  knight! — indite  a  letter  to  his  great  kinsman,  the 
Earl  of  Warwick,  commending  me  to  his  protection.  He 


38  THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

signed  his  mark,  and  set  his  seal  to  this  missive,  which  I  now 
have  at  mine  hostelrie,  and  died  the  same  day.  My  brother 
judged  me  too  young  then  to  quit  his  roof,  and  condemned  me 
to  bear  his  humors  till,  at  the  age  of  twenty-three,  1  could  bear 
no  more!  So,  having  sold  him  my  scant  share  in  the  heritage, 
and  turned,  like  thee,  bad  land  into  good  nobles,  I  joined  a 
party  of  horse  in  their  journey  to  London,  and  arrived  yester- 
day at  Master  Sackbut's  hostelry,  in  Eastchepe.  I  went  this 
morning  to  my  Lord  of  Warwick,  but  he  was  gone  to  the 
King's,  and  hearing  of  the  merry-makings  here,  I  came  hither 
for  kill-time.  A  chance  word  of  my  Lord  of  Montagu,  whom 
St.  Dunstan  confound,  made  me  conceit  that  a  feat  of  skill 
with  the  cloth-yard  might  not  ill  preface  my  letter  to  the  great 
Earl.  But,  pardie!  it  seems  I  reckoned  without  my  host,  and 
in  seeking  to  make  my  fortunes  too  rashly,  I  have  helped  to 
mar  them."  Wherewith  he  related  the  particulars  of  his  inter- 
view with  Montagu. 

Nicholas  Alwyn  listened  to  him  with  friendly  and  thoughtful 
interest,  and,  when  he  had  done,  spoke  thus: 

"The  Earl  of  Warwick  is  a  generous  man,  and,  though  hot, 
bears  little  malice,  except  against  those  whom  he  deems  mis- 
think  or  insult  him;  he  is  proud  of  being  looked  up  to  as -a 
protector,  especially  by  those  of  his  own  kith  and  name.  Your 
father's  letter  will  touch  the  right  string,  and  you  cannot  do 
better  than  deliver  it  with  a  plain  story.  A  young  partisan  like 
thee  is  not  to  be  despised.  Thou  must  trust  to  Lord  Warwick 
to  set  matters  right  with  his  brother;  and  now,  before  I  say 
further,  let  me  ask  thee  plainly,  and  without  offence :  Dost 
thou  so  love  the  House  of  York  that  no  chance  could  ever 
make  thee  turn  sword  against  it?  Answer  as  I  ask — under  thy 
breath;  those  drawers  are  parlous  spies!" 

And  here,  in  justice  to  Marmaduke  Nevile  and  to  his  betters, 
it  is  necessary  to  preface  his  reply  by  some  brief  remarks,  to 
which  we  must  crave  the  earnest  attention  of  the  reader. 
What  we  call  PATRIOTISM,  in  the  high  and  catholic  accepta- 
tion of  the  word,  was  little  if  at  all  understood  in  days  when 
passion,  pride,  and  interest  were  motives  little  softened  by  re- 
flection and  education,  and  softened  still  less  by  the  fusion  of 
classes  that  characterized  the  small  states  of  old,  and  marks 
the  civilization  of  a  modern  age.  Though  the  right  by  descent 
of  the  House  of  York,  if  genealogy  alone  were  consulted,  was 
indisputably  prior  to  that  of  Lancaster,  yet  the  long  exercise  of 
power  in  the  latter  house,  the  genius  of  the  Fourth  Henry  and 
the  victories  of  the  Fifth,  would,  no  doubt,  have  completely 


THE    LAST   OF    THE   BARONS.  39 

superseded  the  obsolete  claims  of  the  Yorkists,  had  Henry  VI. 
possessed  any  of  the  qualities  necessary  for  the  time.  As  it 
was,  men  had  got  puzzled  by  genealogies  and  cavils ;  the  sanc- 
tity attached  to  the  King's  name  was  weakened  by  his  doubt- 
ful right  to  his  throne,  and  the  Wars  of  the  rival  Roses  were  at 
last  (with  two  exceptions,  presently  to  be  noted),  the  mere  con- 
tests of  exasperated  factions,  in  which  public  considerations 
were  scarcely  even  made  the  blind  to  individual  interest,  preju- 
dice, or  passion. 

Thus  instances  of  desertion,  from  the  one  to  the  other  party, 
even  by  the  highest  nobles,  and  on  the  very  eve  of  battle,  had 
grown  so  common,  that  little  if  any  disgrace  was  attached  to 
them:  and  any  knight  or  captain  held  an  affront  to  himself  an 
amply  sufficient  cause  for  the  transfer  of  his  allegiance.  It 
would  be  obviously  absurd  to  expect  in  any  of  the  actors  of 
that  age  the  more  elevated  doctrines  of  party  faith  and  public 
honor,  which  clearer  notions  of  national  morality,  and  the  sal- 
utary exercise  of  a  large  general  opinion,  free  from  the  passions 
of  single  individuals,  have  brought  into  practice  in  our  more 
enlightened  days.  The  individual  feelings  of  the  individual 
MAN,  strong  in  himself,  became  his  guide,  and  he  was  free  in 
much  from  the  regular  and  thoughtful  virtues,  as  well  as  from 
the  mean  and  plausible  vices  of  those  who  act  only  in  bodies  and 
corporations.  The  two  exceptions  to  this  idiosyncrasy  of 
motive  and  conduct  were,  first,  in  the  general  disposition  of 
the  rising  middle  class,  especially  in  London,  to  connect  great 
political  interests  with  the  more  popular  House  of  York.  The 
Commons  in  Parliament  had  acted  in  opposition  to  Henry 
VI.,  as  the  laws  they  wrung  from  him  tended  to  show,  and  it 
was  a  popular  and  trading  party  that  came,  as  it  were,  into 
power  under  King  Edward.  It  is  true  that  Edward  was  suf- 
ficiently arbitrary  in  himself,  but  a  popular  party  will  stretch 
as  much  as  its  antagonists  in  favor  of  despotism — exercised 
on  its  enemies.  And  Edward  did  his  best  to  consult  the  inter- 
ests of  commerce,  though  the  prejudices  of  the  merchants  in- 
terpreted those  interests  in  a  way  opposite  to  that  in  which 
political  economy  now  understands  them.  The  second  ex- 
ception to  the  mere  hostilities  of  individual  chiefs  and  feu- 
dal factions  has,  not  less  than  the  former,  been  too  much 
overlooked  by  historians.  But  this  was  a  still  more  powerful 
element  in  the  success  of  the  House  of  York.  The  hostility 
against  the  Roman  Church,  and  the  tenets  of  the  Lollards, 
were  shared  by  an  immense  part  of  the  population.  In  the 
previous  century  an  ancient  writer  computes  that  one-half  the 


40  THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

population  were  Lollards;  and  though  the  sect  were  dimin- 
ished and  silenced  by  fear,  they  still  ceased  not  to  exist,  and 
their  doctrines  not  only  shook  the  Church  under  Henry  VIII., 
but  destroyed  the  throne  by  the  strong  arm  of  their  children, 
the  Puritans,  under  Charles  I.  It  was  impossible  that  these 
men  should  not  have  felt  the  deepest  resentment  at  the  fierce 
and  steadfast  persecution  they  endured  under  the  House  of  Lan- 
caster; and  without  pausing  to  consider  how  far  they  would  ben- 
efit under  the  dynasty  of  York,  they  had  all  those  motives  of 
revenge  which  are  mistaken  so  often  for  the  counsels  of  policy, 
to  rally  round  any  standard  raised  against  their  oppressors. 
Therse  two  great  exceptions  to  merely  selfish  policy,  which  it 
remains  for  the  historian  clearly  and  at  length  to  enforce, 
these  and  these  alone  will  always  to  a  sagacious  observer,  ele- 
vate the  Wars  of  the  Roses  above  those  bloody  contests  for 
badges  which  we  are,  at  first  sight,  tempted  to  regard  them. 
But  these  deeper  motives  animated  very  little  the  nobles  and 
the  knightly  gentry,*  and  with  them  the  governing  principles 
were,  as  we  have  just  said,  interest,  ambition,  and  the  zeal  for 
the  honor  and  advancement  of  houses  and  chiefs. 

"Truly,"  said  Marmaduke,  after  a  short  and  rather  embar- 
rassed pause,  "I  am  little  beholden  as  yet  to  the  House  of  York. 
There,  where  I  see  a  noble  benefactor,  or  a  brave  and  wise  leader, 
shall  I  think  my  sword  and  heart  may  best  proffer  allegiance." 

"Wisely  said,"  returned  Alwyn,  with  a  slight,  but  half-sar- 
castic smile;  "I  asked  thee  the  question  because  (draw  closer) 
there  aro  wise  men  in  our  city  who  think  the  ties  between  War- 
wick and  the  King  less  strong  than  a  ship's  cable.  And  if 
thou  attaches!  thyself  to  Warwick,  he  will  be  better  pleased,  it 
may  be,  with  talk  of  devotion  to  himself  than  professions  of 
exclusive  loyalty  to  King  Edward.  He  who  has  little  silver  in 
his  pouch  must  have  the  more  silk  on  his  tongue.  A  word  to  a 
Westmoreland  or  a  Yorkshire  man  is  as  good  as  a  sermon  to 
men  not  born  so  far  north.  One  word  more,  and  I  have  done. 
Thou  art  kind,  and  affable,  and  gentle,  my  dear  foster-brother, 
but  it  will  not  do  for  thee  to  be  seen  again  with  the  goldsmith's 
headman.  If  thou  wantest  me,  send  for  me  at  nightfall ;  I 
shall  be  found  at  Master  Heyford's,  in  the  Chepe.  And  if," 
added  Nicholas,  with  a  prudent  reminiscence,  "thou  succeedest 
at  court,  and  canst  recommend  my  master — there  is  no  better 

*  Amongst  many  instances  of  the  self-seeking  of  the  time,  not  the  least  striking  is  the 
subservience  of  John  Mowbray,  the  great  Duke  of  Norfolk,  to  his  old  political  enemy,  the 
Earl  of  Oxford,  the  moment  the  last  comes  into  power,  during  the  brief  restoration  of 
Henry  VI.  John  Paston,  -.vhose  family  had  been  sufficiently  harassed  by  this  great  Duke, 
says,  with  some  glee,  "  The  Duke  and  Duchess  (of  Norfolk)  sue  to  him  (Lord  Oxford)  as 
humbly  as  ever  1  did  to  them." — "  Pasion  Letters,"  cccii. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  41 

goldsmith — it  may  serve  me  when  I  set  up  for  myself,  which  1 
look  to  do  shortly." 

"But,  to  send  for  thee,  my  own  foster-brother,  at  nightfall, 
as  if  I  were  ashamed! — " 

"Hout,  Master  Marmaduke,  if  thou  wert  not  ashamed  of 
me  I  should  be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  a  gay  springal  like 
thee.  Why,  they  would  say  in  the  Chepe  that  Nick  Alwyn 
was  going  to  ruin.  No,  no.  Birds  of  a  feather  must  keep  shy 
of  those  that  moult  other  colors ;  and  so,  my  dear  young  mas- 
ter, this  is  my  last  shake  of  the  hand.  But  hold.  Dost  thou 
know  thy  way  back?" 

"Oh,  yes — never  fear!"  answered  Marmaduke;  "though  I 
see  not  why  so  far,  at  least,  we  may  not  be  companions." 

"No,  better  as  it  is;  after  this  day's  work,  they  will  gossip 
about  both  of  us,  and  we  shall  meet  many  who  know  my  long 
visage  on  the  way  back.  God  keep  thee;  avise  me  how  thou 
prosperest." 

So  saying,  Nicholas  Alwyn  walked  off,  too  delicate  to  pro- 
pose to  pay  his  share  of  the  reckoning  with  a  superior.  But 
when  he  had  gone  a  few  paces,  he  turned  back,  and  accosting 
the  Nevile,  as  the  latter  was  rebuckling  his  mantle,  said : 

"I  have  been  thinking,  Master  Nevile,  that  these  gold 
nobles,  which  it  has  been  my  luck  to  bear  off,  would  be  more 
useful  in  thy  gipsire  than  mine.  I  have  sure  gains  and  small 
expenses,  but  a  gentleman  gains  nothing,  and  his  hand  must 
be  ever  in  his  pouch — so — " 

"Foster-brother!"  said  Marmaduke  haughtily,  "a  gentle- 
man never  borrows — except  of  the  Jews,  and  with  due  interest. 
Moreover,  I  too  have  my  calling;  and  as  thy  stall  to  thee,  so  to 
me  my  good  sword.  Saints  keep  thee !  Be  sure  I  will  serve 
thee  when  I  can." 

"The  devil's  in  these  young  strips  of  the  herald's  tree," 
muttered  Alwyn,  as  he  strode  off;  "as  if  it  were  dishonest  to 
borrow  abroad  piece  without  cutting  a  throat  for  it!  How- 
beit,  money  is  a  prolific  mother:  and  here  is  eno'  to  buy  me 
a  gold  chain  against  I  am  alderman  of  London.  Hout,  thus 
goes  the  world — the  knight's  baubles  become  the  alderman's 
badges — so  much  the  better." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ILL    FARES    THE   COUNTRY    MOUSE    IN    THE    TRAPS    OF    TOWN. 

WE  trust  we  shall  not  be  deemed  discourteous,  either,  on  the 
one  hand,  to  those  who  value  themselves  on  their  powers  of 


42  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

reflection,  cr,  on  the  other,  to  those  who  lay  claim  to  what,  in 
modern  phrenological  jargon,  is  called  the  Organ  of  Locality, 
when  we  venture  to  surmise  that  the  two  are  rarely  found  in 
combination ;  nay,  that  it  seems  to  us  a  very  evident  truism, 
that  in  proportion  to  the  general  activity  of  the  intellect  upon 
subjects  of  pith  and  weight,  the  mind  will  be  indifferent  to 
those  minute  external  objects  by  which  a  less  contemplative 
understanding  will  note,  and  map  out,  and  impress  upon  the 
memory,  the  chart  of  the  road  its  owner  has  once  taken. 
Master  Marmaduke  Nevile,  a  hardy  and  acute  forester  from 
childhood,  possessed  to  perfection  the  useful  faculty  of  looking 
well  and  closely  before  him  as  he  walked  the  earth,  and  ordi- 
narily, therefore,  the  path  he  had  once  taken,  however  intricate 
and  obscure,  he  was  tolerably  sure  to  retrace  with  accuracy, 
even  at  no  inconsiderable  distance  of  time — the  outward  senses 
of  men  are  usually  thus  alert  and  attentive  in  the  savage  or  the 
semi-civilized  state.  He  had  not  therefore,  overvalued  his 
general  acuteness  in  the  note  and  memory  of  localities,  when 
he  boasted  of  his  power  to  re-find  his  way  to  his  hostelrie  with- 
out the  guidance  of  Alwyn.  But  it  so  happened  that  the  events 
of  this  day,  so  memorable  to  him,  withdrew  his  attention  from 
external  objects,  to  concentrate  it  within.  And  in  marvelling 
and  musing  over  the  new  course  upon  which  his  destiny  had 
entered,  he  forgot  to  take  heed  of  that  which  his  feet  should 
pursue,  so  that,  after  wandering  unconsciously  onward  for 
some  time,  he  suddenly  halted  in  perplexity  and  amaze  to  find 
himself  entangled  in  a  labyrinth  of  scattered  suburbs,  present- 
ing features  wholly  different  from  the  road  that  had  conducted 
him  to  the  archery  ground  in  the  forenoon.  The  darkness  of 
the  night  had  set  in,  but  it  was  relieved  by  a  somewhat  faint 
and  mist-clad  moon,  and  some  few  and  scattered  stars,  over 
which  rolled,  fleetly,  thick  clouds,  portending  rain.  No  lamps 
at  that  time  cheered  the  steps  of  the  belated  wanderer;  the 
houses  were  shut  up,  and  their  inmates,  for  the  most  part, 
already  retired  to  rest,  and  the  suburbs  did  not  rejoice,  as 
the  city,  in  the  round  of  the  watchman  with  his  drowsy  call 
to  the  inhabitants:  "Hang  out  your  lights!"  The  passen- 
gers, who  at  first,  in  various  small  groups  and  parties,  had  en- 
livened the  stranger's  way,  seemed  to  him,  unconscious  as 
he  was  of  the  lapse  of  time,  to  have  suddenly  vanished  from 
the  thoroughfares;  and  he  found  himself  alone  in  places 
thoroughly  unknown  to  him,  waking  to  the  displeasing  recol- 
lection that  the  approaches  to  the  city  were  said  to  be  beset  by 
brawlers  and  ruffians  of  desperate  characters,  whom  the  cessa- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  43 

tion  of  the  civil  wars  had  flung  loose  upon  the  skirts  of  society, 
to  maintain  themselves  by  deeds  of  rapine  and  plunder.  As 
might  naturally  be  expected,  most  of  these  had  belonged  to 
the  defeated  party,  who  had  no  claim  to  the  good  offices  or 
charity  of  those  in  power.  And  although  some  of  the  Neviles 
had  sided  with  the  Lancastrians,  yet  the  badge  worn  by  Mar- 
maduke  was  considered  a  pledge  of  devotion  to  the  reigning 
House,  and  added  a  new  danger  to  those  which  beset  his  path. 
Conscious  of  this — for  he  now  called  to  mind  the  admonitions 
of  his  host  in  parting  from  the  hostelrie — he  deemed  it  but  dis- 
creet to  draw  the  hood  of  his  mantle  over  the  silver  ornament ; 
and  while  thus  occupied,  he  heard  not  a  step  emerging  from 
a  lane  at  his  rear,  when  suddenly  a  heavy  hand  was  placed  on 
his  shoulder;  he  started,  turned,  and  before  him  stood  a  man, 
whose  aspect  and  dress  betokened  little  to  lessen  the  alarm  of 
the  uncourteous  salutation.  Marmaduke's  dagger  was  bare  on 
the  instant. 

"And  what  would'st  thou  with  me?"  he  asked. 

"Thy  purse  and  thy  dagger!"  answered  the  stranger. 

"Come  and  take  them,"  said  the  Nevile,  unconscious  that 
he  uttered  a  reply  famous  in  classic  history,  as  he  sprang  back- 
ward a  step  or  so,  and  threw  himself  into  an  attitude  of  de- 
fence. The  stranger  slowly  raised  a  rude  kind  of  mace,  or 
rather  club,  with  a  ball  of  iron  at  the  end,  garnished  with  long 
spikes,  as  he  replied:  "Art  thou  mad  eno' to  fight  for  such 
trifles?" 

"Art  thou  in  the  habit  of  meeting  one  Englishman  who 
yields  his  goods,  without  a  blow,  to  another?"  retorted  Marma- 
duke.  "Goto — thy  club  does  not  daunt  me."  The  stranger 
warily  drew  back  a  step,  and  applied  a  whistle  to  his  mouth. 
The  Nevile  sprang  at  him,  but  the  stranger  warded  off  the 
thrust  of  the  poniard  with  a  light  flourish  of  his  heavy  weapon ; 
and  had  not  the  youth  drawn  back  on  the  instant,  it  had  been 
good-night  and  a  long  day  to  Marmaduke  Nevile.  Even  as  it 
was  his  heart  beat  quick,  as  the  whirl  of  the  huge  weapon  sent 
the  air  like  a  strong  wind  against  his  face.  Ere  he  had  time  to 
renew  his  attack,  he  was  suddenly  seized  from  behind,  and 
found  himself  struggling  in  the  arms  of  two  men.  From  these 
he  broke,  and  his  dagger  glanced  harmless  against  the  tough 
jerkin  of  his  first  assailant.  The  next  moment  his  right  arm 
fell  to  his  side,  useless  and  deeply  gashed.  A  heavy  blow  on  the 
head — the  moon,  the  stars  reeled  in  his  eyes — and  then  dark- 
ness; he  knew  no  more.  His  assailants  very  deliberately  pro- 
ceeded to  rifle  the  inanimate  body,  when  one  of  them,  perceiv- 


44  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

ing  the  silver  badge,  exclaimed,  with  an  oath:  "One  of  the 
rampant  Neviles!  This  cock  at  least  shall  crow  no  more!" 
And  laying  the  young  man's  head  across  his  lap,  while  he 
stretched  back  the  throat  with  one  hand,  with  the  other  he  drew 
forth  a  long,  sharp  knife,  like  those  used  by  huntsmen  in  dis- 
patching the  hart.  Suddenly,  and  in  the  very  moment  when 
the  blade  was  about  to  inflict  the  fatal  gash,  his  hand  was  forci- 
bly arrested,  and  a  man  who  had  silently  and  unnoticed  joined 
the  ruffians,  said,  in  a  stern  whisper:  "Rise,  and  depart  from 
thy  brotherhood  forever.  We  admit  no  murderer." 

The  ruffian  looked  up  in  bewilderment.  "Robin — captain — 
thou  here!"  he  said  falteringly. 

"I  must  needs  be  everywhere,  I  see,  if  I  would  keep  such 
fellows  as  thou  and  these  from  the  gallows.  What  is  this? — a 
silver  arrow — the  young  archer.  Urn." 

"A  Nevile!"  growled  the  would-be  murderer. 

"And  for  that  very  reason  his  life  should  be  safe.  Knowest 
thou  not  that  Richard  of  Warwick,  the  great  Nevile,  ever  spares 
the  Commons.  Begone!  I  say."  The  captain's  low  voice 
grew  terrible  as  he  uttered  the  last  words.  The  savage  rose, 
and  without  a  word  stalked  away. 

"Look  you,  my  masters,"  said  Robin,  turning  to  the  rest,  "sol- 
diers must  plunder  a  hostile  country.  While  York  is  on  the 
throne,  England  is  a  hostile  country  to  us  Lancastrians.  Rob, 
then,  rifle,  if  ye  will.  But  he  who  takes  life  shall  lose  it.  Ye 
know  me!"  The  robbers  looked  down,  silent  and  abashed. 
Robin  bent  a  moment  over  the  youth.  "He  will  live,"  he 
muttered.  "So!  he  already  begins  to  awaken.  One  of  these 
houses  will  give  him  shelter.  Off,  fellows,  and  take  care  of 
your  necks!" 

When  Marmaduke,  a  few  minutes  after  this  colloquy,  began 
to  revive,  it  was  with  a  sensation  of  dizziness,  pain,  and  ex- 
treme cold.  He  strove  to  lift  himself  from  the  ground,  and 
at  length  succeeded.  He  was  alone;  the  place  where  he  had 
lain  was  damp  and  red  with  stiffening  blood.  He  tottered  on 
for  several  paces,  and  perceived  from  a  lattice,  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, a  light  still  burning.  Now  reeling,  now  falling,  he  still 
dragged  on  his  limbs  as  the  instinct  attracted  him  to  that  sign 
of  refuge.  He  gained  the  doorway  of  a  detached  and  gloomy 
house,  and  sank  on  the  stone  before  it  to  cry  aloud.  But  his 
voice  soon  sank  into  deep  groans,  and  once  more,  as  his  efforts 
increased  the  rapid  gush  of  the  blood,  became  insensible.  The 
man  styled  Robin,  who  had  so  opportunely  saved  his  life,  now 
approached  from  the  shadow  of  a  wall,  beneath  which  he  had 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  45 

watched  Marmaduke's  movements.  He  neared  the  door  of  the 
house,  and  cried,  in  a  sharp,  clear  voice:  "Open,  for  the  love 
of  Christ!" 

A  head  was  now  thrust  from  the  lattice — the  light  vanished — 
a  minute  more,  the  door  opened;  and,  Robin,  as  if  satisfied, 
drew  hastily  back,  and  vanished,  saying  to  himself,  as  he  strode 
along:  "A  young  man's  life  must  needs  be  dear  to  him;  yet, 
had  the  lad  been  a  lord,  methinks  I  should  have  cared  little  to 
have  saved  for  the  people  one  tyrant  more." 

After  a  long  interval,  Marmaduke  again  recovered,  and  his 
eyes  turned  with  pain  from  the  glare  of  a  light  held  to  his  face. 

"He  wakes,  father!     He  will  live!"  cried  a  sweet  voice. 

"Ay,  he  will  live,  child!"  answered  a  deeper  tone;  and  the 
young  man  muttered  to  himself,  half-audibly,  as  in  a  dream : 
"Holy  Mother  be  blessed!  it  is  sweet  to  live!" 

The  room,  in  which  the  sufferer  lay,  rather  exhibited  the  re- 
mains of  better  fortunes  than  testified  to  the  solid  means  of  the 
present  possessor.  The  ceiling  was  high  and  groined,  and  some 
tints  of  faded,  but  once  gaudy  painting  blazoned  its  compart- 
ments and  hanging  pendants.  The  walls  had  been  rudely 
painted  (for  arras  *  then  was  rare,  even  among  the  wealthiest), 
but  the  colors  were  half-obliterated  by  time  and  damp.  The 
bedstead  on  which  the  wounded  man  reclined  was  curiously 
carved,  with  a  figure  of  the  Virgin  at  the  head,  and  adorned 
with  draperies,  in  which  were  wrought  huge  figures  from  scrip- 
tural subjects,  but  in  the  dress  of  the  date  of  Richard  II. — 
Solomon  in  pointed  upturned  shoes,  and  Goliath,  in  the  armor 
of  a  crusader — frowning  grimly  upon  the  sufferer.  By 'the  bed- 
side stood  a  personage,  who,  in  reality,  was  but  little  past  the 
middle  age,  but  whose  pale  visage  intersected  with  deep  furrows, 
whose  long  beard  and  hair,  partially  gray,  gave  him  the  appear- 
ance of  advanced  age :  nevertheless  there  was  something  pecu- 
liarly striking  in  the  aspect  of  the  man.  His  forehead  was 
singularly  high  and  massive,  but  the  back  of  the  head  was  dis- 
proportionately small,  as  if  the  intellect  too  much  preponderated 
over  all  the  animal  qualities  for  strength  in  character  and  suc- 
cess in  life.  The  eyes  were  soft,  dark,  and  brilliant,  but  dream- 

*  Mr.  Hallam  ("History  of  the  Middle  Ages,"  chap.  ix. ,  part  2),  implies  a  doubt  whether 
great  houses  were  furnished  with  hangings  so  soon  as  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  But  there 
is  abundant  evidence  to  satisfy  our  learned  historian  upon  that  head.  The  Narrative  of 
the  "  Lord  of  Grauthuse,"  edited  by  Sir  F.  Madden,  specifies  the  hangings  of  cloth  of 
gold  in  the  apartments  in  which  that  lord  was  received  by  Edward  IV.;  also  the  hangings 
of  white  silk  and  linen  in  the  chamber  appropriated  to  himself  at  Windsor.  But  long  before 
this  period  (to  say  nothing  of  the  Bayeux  Tapestry)  viz.,  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  (in 
1344.),  a  writ  was  issued  to  inquire  into  the  mystery  of  working  tapestry  ;  and  in  1308,  Mr. 
Bntton  observes  that  the  celebrated  arras  hangings  at  Warwick  Castle  are  mentioned.  (Se» 
Britton's  "Dictionary  of  Architecture  and  Archaeology  " — art.  Tapestry.) 


$6  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

like  and  vague;  the  features  in  youth  must  have  been  regular 
and  beautiful,  but  their  contour  was  now  sharpened  by  the  hol- 
lowness  of  the  cheeks  and  temples.  The  form,  in  the  upper 
part,  was  nobly  shaped,  sufficiently  muscular,  if  not  powerful, 
and  with  the  long  throat  and  falling  shoulders,  which  always 
give  something  of  grace  and  dignity  to  the  carriage;  but  it  was 
prematurely  bent,  and  the  lower  limbs  were  thin  and  weak,  as 
is  common  with  men  who  have  sparely  used  them ;  they  seem 
disproportioned  to  that  broad  chest,  and  still  more  to  that 
magnificent  and  spacious  brow.  The  dress  of  this  personage 
corresponded  with  the  aspect  of  his  abode.  The  materials  were 
those  worn  by  the  gentry,  but  they  were  old,  threadbare,  and 
discolored  with  innumerable  spots  and  stains.  His  hands  were 
small  and  delicate,  with  large  blue  veins,  that  spoke  of  relaxed 
fibres,  but  their  natural  whiteness  was  smudged  with  smoke- 
stains,  and  his  beard — a  masculine  ornament  utterly  out  of 
fashion  among  the  younger  race  in  King  Edward's  reign,  but 
when  worn  by  the  elder  gentry,  carefully  trimmed  and  per- 
fumed— was  dishevelled  into  all  the  spiral  and  tangled  curls 
displayed  in  the  sculptured  head  of  some  old  Grecian  sage  or 
poet. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  knelt  a  young  girl  of  about  six- 
teen, with  a  face  exquisitely  lovely  in  its  delicacy  and  expres- 
sion. She  seemed  about  the  middle  stature,  and  her  arms  and 
neck,  as  displayed  by  the  close-fitting  vest,  had  already  the 
smooth  and  rounded  contour  of  dawning  womanhood,  while 
the  face  had  still  the  softness,  innocence,  and  inexpressible 
bloom  of  the  child.  There  was  a  strong  likeness  between  her 
and  her  father  (for  such  the  relationship),  despite  the  difference 
of  sex  and  years:  the  same  beautiful  form  of  lip  and  brow;  the 
same  rare  color  of  the  eyes,  dark  blue,  with  black  fringing 
lashes;  and  perhaps  the  common  expression,  at  that  moment, 
of  gentle  pity  and  benevolent  anxiety  contributed  to  render  the 
resemblance  stronger. 

"Father,  he  sinks  again!"  said  the  girl. 

"Sibyll,"  answered  the  man,  putting  his  finger  upon  a  line 
in  a  manuscript  book  that  he  held,  "the  authority  saith,  that  a 
patient  so  contused  should  lose  blood,  and  then  the  arm  must 
be  tightly  bandaged.  Verily,  we  lack  the  wherewithal." 

"Not  so,  father!"  said  the  girl,  and  blushing,  she  turned 
aside,  and  took  off  the  partelet  of  lawn,  upon  which  holiday 
finery  her  young  eyes  perhaps  that  morning  had  turned  with 
pleasure,  and  white  as  snow  was  the  neck  which  was  thus  dis- 
played— "this  will  suffice  to  bind  his  arm." 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  47 

"But  the  book,"  said  the  father,  in  great  perplexity — "the 
book  telieth  us  not  how  the  lancet  should  be  applied.  It  is  easy 
to  say:  'Do  this  and  do  that,'  but  to  do  it  once,  it  should  have 
been  done  before!  This  is  not  among  my  experiments." 

Luckily,  perhaps,  for  Marmaduke,  at  this  moment  there 
entered  an  old  woman,  the  solitary  servant  of  the  house,  whose 
life,  in  those  warlike  times,  had  made  her  pretty  well  acquainted 
with  the  simpler  modes  of  dealing  with  a  wounded  arm  and  a 
broken  head.  She  treated  with  great  disdain  the  learned  au- 
thority referred  to  by  her  master;  she  bound  the  arm,  plaistered 
the  head,  and  taking  upon  herself  the  responsibility  to  promise 
a  rapid  cure,  insisted  upon  the  retirement  of  father  and  child, 
and  took  her  solitary  watch  beside  the  bed. 

"If  it  had  been  any  other  mechanism  than  that  of  the  vile 
human  body!"  muttered  the  philosopher,  as  if  apologizing  to 
himself — and  with  that  he  recovered  his  self-complacency  and 
looked  round  him  proudly. 

CHAPTER  V. 

WEAL  TO  THE  IDLER — WOE  TO  THE  WORKMAN. 

As  Providence  tempers  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb,  so  it 
possibly  might  conform  the  heads  of  that  day  to  a  thickness 
suitable  for  the  blows  and  knocks  to  which  they  were  variously 
subjected;  yet  it  was  not  without  considerable  effort  and  much 
struggling,  that  Marmaduke's  senses  recovered  the  shock  re- 
ceived, less  by  his  flesh  wound,  and  the  loss  of  blood,  than  a 
blow  on  the  seat  of  reason,  that  might  have  dispatched  a  passa- 
ble ox  of  these  degenerate  days.  Nature,  to  say  nothing  of 
Madge's  leechcraft,  ultimately  triumphed,  and  Marmaduke 
woke  one  morning  in  full  possession  of  such  understanding  as 
Nature  had  endowed  him  with.  He  was  then  alone,  and  it  was 
with  much  simple  surprise  that  he  turned  his  large  hazel  eyes 
from  corner  to  corner  of  the  unfamiliar  room.  He  began  to 
retrace  and  weave  together  sundry  disordered  and  vague  remin- 
iscences: he  commenced  with  the  commencement,  and  clearly 
satisfied  himself  that  he  had  been  grievously  wounded  and 
sorely  bruised;  he  then  recalled  the  solitary  light  at  the  high 
lattice,  and  his  memory  found  itself  at  the  porch  of  the  large, 
lonely,  ruinous  old  house;  then  all  became  a  bewildered  and 
feverish  dream.  He  caught  at  the  vision  of  an  old  man  with  a 
long  beard,  whom  he  associated,  displeasingly,  with  recollec- 
tions of  pain;  he  glanced  off  to  a  fair  young  face,  with  eyes  that 
looked  tender  pity  whenever  he  writhed  or  groaned  under  the 


,j£  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

tortures  f.hat,  no  doubt,  that  old  accursed  carle  had  inflicted 
upon  him.  But  even  this  face  did  not  dwell  with  pleasure  in 
his  memory :  it  woke  up  confused  and  laboring  associations  of 
something  weird  and  witchlike ;  of  sorceresses  and  tymbesteres ; 
of  wild  warnings  screeched  in  his  ear ;  of  incantations  and  devil- 
ries, and  doom.  Impatient  of  these  musings,  he  sought  to  leap 
from  his  bed,  and  was  amazed  that  the  leap  subsided  into  a  tot- 
tering crawl.  He  found  an  ewer  and  basin,  and  his  ablutions  re- 
freshed and  invigorated  him.  Researched  for  his  raiment,  and 
discovered  it  all  except  the  mantle,  dagger,  hat,  and  girdle ;  and, 
while  looking  for  these,  his  eye  fell  on  an  old  tarnished  steel 
mirror.  He  started  as  if  he  had  seen  his  ghost;  was  it  possible 
that  his  hardy  face  could  have  waned  into  that  pale  and  almost 
femininely  delicate  visage.  With  the  pride  (call  it  not  cox- 
combry) that  then  made  the  care  of  person  the  distinction  of 
gentle  birth,  he  strove  to  reduce  into  order  the  tangled  locks  of 
the  long  hair,  of  which  a  considerable  portion  above  a  part  that 
seemed  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the  touch  had  been  mercilessly 
clipped ;  and  as  he  had  just  completed  this  task,  with  little  satis- 
faction and  much  inward  chafing  at  the  lack  of  all  befitting 
essences  and  perfumes,  the  door  gently  opened,  and  the  fair  face 
he  had  dreamed  of  appeared  at  the  aperture. 

The  girl  uttered  a  cry  of  astonishment  and  alarm  at  seeing 
the  patient  thus  arrayed  and  convalescent,  and  would  suddenly 
have  retreated,  but  the  Nevile  advanced,  and  courteously  tak- 
ing her  hand: 

"Fair  maiden,"  said  he,  "if,  as  I  trow,  I  owe  to  thy  cares  my 
tending  and  cure — nay,  it  may  be  a  life  hitherto  of  little  worth, 
save  to  myself — do  not  fly  from  my  thanks.  May  our  Lady  of 
Walsingham  bless  and  reward  thee!" 

"Sir,"  answered  Sibyll,  gently  withdrawing  her  hands  from 
his  clasp,  "our  poor  cares  have  been  a  slight  return  for  thy 
generous  protection  to  myself." 

"To  thee!  Ah,  forgive  me — how  could  I  be  so  dull?  I  re- 
member thy  face  now;  and,  perchance,  I  deserved  the  disaster 
I  met  with  in  leaving  thee  so  discourteously.  My  heart  smote 
me  for  it  as  thy  light  footfall  passed  from  my  side." 

A  slight  blush,  succeeded  by  a  thoughtful  smile — the  smile 
of  one  who  recalls  and  caresses  some  not  displeasing  remem- 
brance, passed  over  Sibyll's  charming  countenance,  as  the  suf- 
ferer said  this  with  something  of  the  grace  of  a  well-born  man, 
whose  boyhood  had  been  taught  to  serve  God  and  the  Ladies. 

There  was  a  short  pause  before  she  answered,  looking  down: 
"Nay,  sir,  I  was  sufficiently  beholden  to  you;  and  for  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  49 

rest,  all  molestation  was  over.  But  I  will  now  call  your  nurse — ' 
for  it  is  to  our  servant,  not  us,  that  your  thanks  are  dire — to  see 
to  your  state,  and  administer  the  proper  medicaments." 

"Truly,  fair  damsel,  it  is  not  precisely  medicaments  that  I 
hunger  and  thirst  for ;  and  if  your  hospitality  could  spare  me 
from  the  larder  a  manchet,  or  a  corner  of  a  pasty,  and  from 
the  cellar  a  stoup  of  wine  or  a  cup  of  ale,  methinks  it  would 
tend  more  to  restore  me  than  those  potions  which  are  so  strange 
to  my  taste  that  they  rather  offend  than  tempt  it ;  and,  pardie, 
it  seemeth  to  my  poor  senses  as  if  I  had  not  broken  bread  for  a 
week!" 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  you  of  such  good  cheer,"  answered 
Sibyll;  "wait  but  a  moment  or  so,  till  I  consult  your  physi- 
cian." 

And,  so  saying,  she  closed  the  door,  slowly  descended  the 
steps,  and  pursued  her  way  into  what  seemed  more  like  a  vault 
than  a  habitable  room,  where  she  found  the  single  servant  of 
the  household.  Time,  which  makes  changes  so  fantastic  in  the 
dress  of  the  better  classes,  has  a  greater  respect  for  the  costume 
of  the  humbler ;  and,  though  the  garments  were  of  a  very  coarse 
sort  of  serge,  there  was  not  so  great  a  difference,  in  point  of 
comfort  and  sufficiency,  as  might  be  supposed,  between  the 
dress  of  old  Madge  and  that  of  some  primitive  servant  in  the 
north  during  the  last  century.  The  old  woman's  face  was  thin 
and  pinched,  but  its  sharp  expression  brightened  into  a  smile  as 
she  caught  sight,  through  the  damps  and  darkness,  of  the  gra- 
cious form  of  her  young  mistress.  "Ah  Madge, "  said  Sibyll, 
with  a  sigh,  "it  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  poor!" 

"For  such  as  thou,  Mistress  Sibyll,  it  is  indeed.  It  does  not 
matter  for  the  like  of  us.  But  it  goes  to  my  old  heart  when  I 
see  you  shut  up  here,  or  worse,  going  out  in  that  old  courtpie 
and  wimple — you,  a  knight's  grandchild — you,  who  have  played 
round  a  queen's  knees,  and  who  might  have  been  so  well-to-do, 
an'  my  master  had  thought  a  little  more  of  the  gear  of  this 
world.  But  patience  is  a  good  palfrey,  and  will  .carry  us  a 
long  day.  And  when  the  master  has  done  what  he  looks  for, 
why  the  King — sith  we  must  so  call  the  new  man  on  the  throne — 
will  be  sure  to  reward  him ;  but,  sweetheart,  tarry  not  here ; 
it's  an  ill  air  for  your  young  lips  to  drink  in.  What  brings  you 
to  old  Madge?" 

"The  stranger  is  recovered,  and — " 

"Ay,  I  warrant  me,  I  have  cured  worse  than  he.  He  must 
have  a  spoonful  of  broth — I  have  not  forgot  it.  You  see  I 
wanted  no  dinner  myself — what  is  dinner  to  old  folks! — sol 


50  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

e'en  put  it  all  in  the  pot  for  him.  The  broth  will  be  brave  and 
strong." 

"My  poor  Madge,  God  requite  you  for  what  you  suffer  for 
us!  But  he  has  asked" — here  was  another  sigh  and  a  downcast 
look  that  did  not  dare  to  face  the  consternation  of  Madge,  as 
she  repeated,  with  a  half  smile — '  'he  has  asked — for  meat,  and 
a  stoup  of  wine,  Madge!" 

"Eh,  sirs!  And  where  is  he  to  get  them?  Not  that  it  will 
be  bad  for  the  lad,  either.  Wine!  There's  Master  Bancroft, 
of  the  Oak,  will  not  trust  us  a  penny,  the  seely  hilding,  and — "' 

"Oh,  Madge,  I  forgot! — we  can  still  sell  thegittern  for  some- 
thing. Get  on  your  wimple,  Madge — quick — while  I  go  for  it." 

"Why,  Mistress  Sibyll,  that's  your  only  pleasure,  when  you 
sit  all  alone,  the  long  summer  days." 

"It  will  be  more  pleasure  to  remember  that  it  supplied  the 
wants  of  my  father's  guest,"  said  Sibyll;  and  retracing  the  way 
up  the  stair,  she  returned  with  the  broken  instrument,  and  dis- 
patched Madge  with  it,  laden  with  instructions  that  the  wine 
should  be  of  the  best.  She  then  once  more  mounted  the  rugged 
steps,  and  halting  a  moment  at  Marmaduke's  door,  as  she  heard 
his  feeble  step  walking  impatiently  to  and  fro,  she  ascended 
higher,  where  the  flight,  winding  up  a  square  dilapidated  turret, 
became  rougher,  narrower,  and  darker,  and  opened  the  door  -of 
her  father's  retreat. 

It  was  a  room  so  bare  of  ornament  and  furniture  that  it 
seemed  merely  wrought  out  of  the  mingled  rubble  and  rough 
stones  which  composed  the  walls  of  the  mansion,  and  was 
lighted  towards  the  street  by  a  narrow  slit,  glazed,  it  is  true — 
which  all  the  windows  of  the  house  were  not — but  the  sun 
scarcely  pierced  the  dull  panes  and  the  deep  walls  in  which 
they  were  sunk.  The  room  contained  a  strong  furnace,  and  a 
rude  laboratory.  There  were  several  strange-looking  mechan- 
ical contrivances  scattered  about,  several  manuscripts  upon  some 
oaken  shelves,  and  a  large  panier  of  wood  and  charcoal  in  the 
corner.  In  that  poverty-stricken  house,  the  money  spent  on 
fuel  alone,  in  the  height  of  summer,  would  have  comfortably 
maintained  the  inmates;  but  neither  Sibyll  nor  Madge  ever 
thought  to  murmur  at  this  waste,  dedicated  to  what  had  be- 
come the  vital  want  of  a  man  who  drew  air  in  a  world  of  his 
own.  This  was  the  first  thing  to  be  provided  for;  and  Science 
was  of  more  imperative  necessity  than  even  Hunger. 

Adam  Warner  was  indeed  a  creature  of  remarkable  genius; 
and  genius,  in  an  age  where  it  is  not  appreciated,  is  the  greatest 
curse  the  iron  Fates  can  inflict  on  man.  If  not  wholly  without 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  5 1 

the  fond  fancies  which  led  the  wisdom  of  the  darker  ages  to  the 
philosopher's  stone  and  the  elixir,  he  had  been  deterred  from 
the  chase  of  a  chimera  by  want  of  means  to  pursue  it;  for  it 
required  the  resources  or  the  patronage  of  a  prince  or  noble  to 
obtain  the  costly  ingredients  consumed  in  the  alchemist's  cruci- 
ble. In  early  life,  therefore,  and  while  yet  in  possession  of  a 
competence,  derived  from  a  line  of  distinguished  and  knightly 
ancestors,  Adam  Warner  had  devoted  himself  to  the  surer,  and 
less  costly,  study  of  the  mathematics,  which  then  had  begun  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  learned,  but  which  was  still  looked 
upon  by  the  vulgar  as  a  branch  of  the  black  art.  This  pursuit 
had  opened  to  him  the  insight  into  discoveries  equally  useful 
and  sublime.  They  necessitated  a  still  more  various  knowledge ; 
and  in  an  age  when  there  was  no  division  of  labor,  and  rare  and 
precarious  communication  among  students,  it  became  necessary 
for  each  discoverer  to  acquire  sufficient  science  for  his  own  col- 
lateral experiments. 

In  applying  mathematics  to  the  practical  purposes  of  life, 
in  recognizing  its  mighty  utilities  to  commerce  and  civilization, 
Adam  Warner  was  driven  to  conjoin  with  it  not  only  an  exten- 
sive knowledge  of  languages,  but  many  of  the  rudest  tasks  of  the 
mechanist's  art ;  and  chemistry  was,  in  some  of  his  researches, 
summoned  to  his  aid.  By  degrees,  the  tyranny  that  a  man's 
genius  exercises  over  his  life  abstracted  him  from  all  external 
objects.  He  had  loved  his  wife  tenderly,  but  his  rapid  waste  of 
his  fortune  in  the  purchase  of  instruments  and  books,  then 
enormously  dear,  and  the  neglect  of  all  things  not  centred  in  the 
hope  to  be  the  benefactor  of  the  world,  had  ruined  her  health 
and  broken  her  heart.  Happily  Warner  perceived  not  her 
decay  till  just  before  her  death ;  happily  he  never  conceived 
its  cause ;  for  her  soul  was  wrapped  in  his.  She  revered,  and 
loved,  and  never  upbraided  him.  Her  heart  was  the  martyr 
to  his  mind.  Had  she  foreseen,  the  future  destinies  of  her 
daughter  it  might  have  been  otherwise.  She  could  have  re- 
monstrated with  the  father,  though  not  with  the  husband. 
But,  fortunately,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  she  (a  Frenchwoman  by 
birth)  had  passed  her  youth  in  the  service  of  Margaret  of  An- 
jou,  and  that  haughty  queen,  who  was  equally  warm  to  friends 
and  inexorable  to  enemies,  had.  on  her  attendant's  marriage, 
promised  to  ensure  the  fortunes  of  her  offspring.  Sibyll,  at 
the  age  of  nine,  between  seven  and  eight  years  before  the  date 
the  story  enters  on,  and  two  years  prior  to  the  fatal  field  of 
Teuton,  which  gave  to  Edward  the  throne  of  England,  had 
been  admitted  among  the  young  girls  whom  the  custom  of  the 


52  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

day  ranked  amidst  the  attendants  of  the  Queen;  and  in  the 
interval  that  elapsed  before  Margaret  was  obliged  to  dismiss 
her  to  her  home,  her  mother  died.  She  died  without  foresee- 
ing the  reverses  that  were  to  ensue,  in  the  hope  that  her  child, 
at  least,  was  nobly  provided  for,  and  not  without  the  belief  (for 
there  is  so  much  faith  in  love!)  that  her  husband's  researches, 
which  in  his  youth  had  won  favor  of  the  Protector-duke  of 
Gloucester,  the  most  enlightened  prince  of  his  time,  would  be 
crowned  at  last  with  the  rewards  and  favors  of  his  king.  That 
precise  period  was,  indeed,  the  fairest  that  had  yet  dawned 
upon  the  philosopher.  Henry  VI.,  slowly  recovering  from  one 
of  those  attacks  which  passed  for  imbecility,  had  condescended 
to  amuse  himself  with  various  conversations  with  Warner, 
urged  to  it  first  by  representations  of  the  unholy  nature  of  the 
student's  pursuits ;  and,  having  satisfied  his  mind  of  his  learned 
subject's  orthodoxy,  the  poor  monarch  had  taken  a  sort  of 
interest,  not  so  much,  perhaps,  in  the  objects  of  Warner's  oc- 
cupations, as  in  that  complete  absorption  from  actual  life  which 
characterized  the  subject,  and  gave  him  in  this  a  melancholy 
resemblance  to  the  King.  While  the  House  of  Lancaster  was 
on  the  throne,  his  wife  felt  that  her  husband's  pursuits  would 
be  respected,  and  his  harmless  life  safe  from  the  fierce  preju- 
dices of  the  people;  and  the  good  Queen  would  not  suffer  him 
to  starve,  when  the  last  mark  was  expended  in  devices  how  to 
benefit  his  country — and  in  these  hopes  the  woman  died! 

A  year  afterwards,  all  at  court  was  in  disorder — armed  men 
supplied  the  service  of  young  girls,  and  Sibyll,  with  a  purse  of 
broad  pieces,  soon  converted  into  manuscripts,  was  sent  back 
to  her  father's  desolate  home.  There  had  she  grown  a  flower 
amidst  ruins,  with  no  companion  of  her  own  age,  and  left  to 
bear,  as  her  sweet  and  affectionate  nature  well  did,  the  con- 
trast between  the  luxuries  of  a  court  and  the  penury  of  a  hearth 
which,  year  after  year,  hunger  and  want  came  more  and  more 
sensibly  to  invade. 

Sibyll  had  been  taught,  even  as  a  child,  some  accomplish- 
ments little  vouchsafed,  then,  to  either  sex — she  could  read  and 
write;  and  Margaret  had  not  so  wholly  lost,  in  the  sterner 
north,  all  reminiscence  of  the  accomplishments  that  graced  her 
father's  court,  as  to  neglect  the  education  of  those  brought  up 
in  her  household.  Much  attention  was  given  to  music,  for  it 
soothed  the  dark  hours  of  King  Henry;  the  blazoning  of  mis- 
sals or  the  lives  of  saints,  with  the  labors  of  the  loom,  were  also 
among  the  resources  of  Sibyll's  girlhood,  and  by  these  last  she 
had,  from  time  to  time,  served  to  assist  the  maintenance  of  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  53 

little  family  of  which,  child  though  she  was,  she  became  the 
actual  head.  But  latterly,  that  is,  for  the  last  few  weeks,  even 
these  sources  failed  her ;  for  as  more  peaceful  times  allowed 
her  neighbors  to  interest  themselves  in  the  affairs  of  others,  the 
dark  reports  against  Warner  had  revived.  His  name  became 
a  byword  of  horror;  the  lonely  light  at  the  lattice  burning  till 
midnight,  against  all  the  early  usages  and  habits  of  the  day; 
the  dark  smoke  of  the  furnace,  constant  in  summer  as  in  win- 
ter, scandalized  the  religion  of  the  place  far  and  near,  and  find- 
ing, to  their  great  dissatisfaction,  that  the  King's  government 
and  the  Church  interfered  not  for  their  protection,  and  unable 
themselves  to  volunteer  any  charges  against  the  recluse  (for 
the  cows  in  the  neighborhood  remained  provokingly  healthy), 
they  came  suddenly,  and,  as  it  were,  by  one  of  those  common 
sympathies  which  in  all  times  the  huge  persecutor  we  call  the 
PUBLIC  manifests,  when  a  victim  is  to  be  crushed,  to  the  pious 
resolution  of  starving  where  they  could  not  burn.  Why  buy 
the  quaint  devilries  of  the  wizard's  daughter?  No  luck  could 
come  of  it.  A  missal  blazoned  by  such  hands,  an  embroidery 
worked  at  such  a  loom,  was  like  the  Lord's  Prayer  read  back- 
wards. And  one  morning  when  poor  Sibyll  stole  out  as  usual 
to  vend  a  month's  labor,  she  was  driven  from  door  to  door  with 
oaths  and  curses. 

Though  Sibyll's  heart  was  gentle,  she  was  not  without  a  cer- 
tain strength  of  mind.  She  had  much  of  the  patient  devotion 
of  her  mother,  much  of  the  quiet  fortitude  of  her  father's  na- 
ture. If  not  comprehending  to  the  full  the  loftiness  of  War- 
ner's pursuits,  she  still  anticipated  from  them  an  ultimate  suc- 
cess which  reconciled  her  to  all  temporary  sacrifices.  The 
violent  prejudices,  the  ignorant  cruelty,  thus  brought  to  bear 
against  existence  itself,  filled  her  with  sadness,  it  is  true,  but 
not  unmixed  with  that  contempt  for  her  persecutors,  which, 
even  in  the  meekest  tempers,  takes  the  sting  from  despair. 
But  hunger  pressed.  Her  father  was  nearing  the  goal  of  his 
discoveries,  and  in  a  moment  of  that  pride  which  in  its  very 
contempt  for  appearances  braves  them  all,  Sibyll  had  stolen 
out  to  the  pastime-ground — with  what  result  has  been  seen  al- 
ready. Having  thus  accounted  for  the  penury  of  the  mansion, 
we  return  to  its  owner. 

Warner  was  contemplating  with  evident  complacency  and 
delight  the  model  of  a  machine  which  had  occupied  him  for 
many  years,  and  which  he  imagined  he  was  now  rapidly  bring- 
ing to  perfection.  His  hands  and  face  were  grimed  with  the 
smoke  of  his.  forge,  and  his  hair  and  beard,  neglected  as  usual, 


54  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

looked  parched  and  dried  up,  as  if  with  the  constant  fever  that 
burned  within. 

"Yes — yes,"  he  muttered — "How  they  will  bless  me  for 
this!  What  Roger  Bacon  only  suggested  I  shall  accomplish! 
How  it  will  change  the  face  of  the  globe!  What  wealth  it  will 
bestow  on  ages  yet  unborn!" 

"My  father,"  said  the  gentle  voice  of  Sibyll — "my  poor 
father,  thou  hast  not  tasted  bread  to-day." 

Warner  turned,  and  his  face  relaxed  into  a  tender  expres- 
sion as  he  saw  his  daughter. 

"My  child,"  he  said,  pointing  to  his  model,  "the  time 
comes  when  //  will  live!  Patience — patience!" 

"And  who  would  not  have  patience  with  thee,  and/i?r  thee, 
father?"  said  Sibyll,  with  enthusiasm  speaking  on  every  feat- 
ure. "What  is  the  valor  of  knight  and  soldier — dull  statues  of 
steel — to  thine?  Thou,  with  thy  naked  breast,  confronting  all 
dangers — sharper  than  the  lance  and  glaive,  and  all — " 

"All  to  make  England  great!" 

"Alas!  what  hath  England  merited  from  men  like  thee! 
The  people,  more  savage  than  their  rulers,  clamor  for  the  stake, 
the  gibbet,  and  the  dungeon,  for  all  who  strive  to  make  them 
wiser.  Remember  the  death  of  Bolingbroke :  *  — a  wizard,  be- 
cause, O  father! — because  his  pursuits  were  thine!" 

Adam,  startled  by  this  burst,  looked  at  his  daughter  with 
more  attention  than  he  usually  evinced  to  any  living  thing: 
"Child,"  he  said,  at  length,  shaking  his  head  in  grave  reproof, 
"Let  me  not  say  to  thee,  'O  thou  of  little  faith!'  There  were 
no  heroes  were  there  no  martyrs!" 

"Do  not  frown  on  me,  father,"  said  Sibyll  sadly;  "let  the 
world  frown — not  thou !  Yes,  thou  art  right.  Thou  must  tri- 
umph at  last."  And  suddenly  her  whole  countenance,  chang- 
ing into  a  soft  and  caressing  endearment,  she  added:  "But 
now  come,  father.  Thou  hast  labored  well  for  this  morning. 
We  shall  have  a  little  feast  for  thee  in  a  few  minutes.  And  the 
stranger  is  recovered,  thanks  to  our  leechcraft.  He  is  impa- 
tient to  see  and  thank  thee." 

"Well — well,  I  come,  Sibyll,"  said  the  student,  with  a  regret- 
ful, lingering  look  at  his  model,  and  a  sigh  to  be  disturbed  from 
its  contemplation;  and  he  slowly  quitted  the  room  with  Sibyll. 

"But  not,  dear  sir  and  father,  not  thus, — not  quite  thus — will 
you  go  to  the  stranger,  well-born  like  yourself.  Oh,  no!  your 
Sibyll  is  proud,  you  know — proud  of  her  father."  So  saying, 

*  A  mathematician  accused  as  an  accomplice,  in  sorcery,  of  Eleanor  Cobham,  wife  of 
Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloucester,  and  hanged  upon  that  charge.  His  contemporary  (Wil- 
liam Wyrcestre)  highly  extols  his  learning. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  55 

she  clung  to  him  fondly,  and  drew  him  mechanically,  for  he 
had  sunk  into  a  revery,  and  heeded  her  not,  into  an  adjoining 
chamber  in  which  he  slept.  The  comforts  even  of  the  gentry, 
of  men  with  the  acres  that  Adam  had  sold,  were  then  few  and 
scanty.  The  nobles  and  the  wealthy  merchants,  indeed, 
boasted  many  luxuries  that  excelled  in  gaud  and  pomp  those 
of  their  equals  now.  But  the  class  of  the  gentry  who  had  very 
little  money  at  command  were  contented  with  hardships  from 
which  a  menial  of  this  day  would  revolt.  What  they  could 
spend  in  luxury  was  usually  consumed  in  dress  and  the  table 
they  were  obliged  to  keep.  These  were  the  essentials  of  dig- 
nity. Of  furniture  there  was  a  woeful  stint.  In  many  houses, 
e-ven  of  knights,  an  edifice  large  enough  to  occupy  a  quadran- 
gle was  composed  more  of  offices  than  chambers  inhabited 
by  the  owners ;  rarely  boasting  more  than  three  beds,  which 
were  bequeathed  in  wills  as  articles  of  great  value.  The  reader 
must,  therefore,  not  be  surprised  that  Warner's  abode  con- 
tained but  one  bed,  properly  so  called,  and  that  was  now  de- 
voted to  Nevile.  The  couch  which  served  the  philosopher  for 
bed  was  a  wretched  pallet,  stretched  on  the  floor,  stuffed  with 
straw,  with  rough  say  or  serge,  and  an  old  cloak  for  the  cover- 
ings. His  daughter's,  in  a  room  below,  was  little  better.  The 
walls  were  bare ;  the  whole  house  boasted  but  one  chair,  which 
was  in  Marmaduke's  chamber — stools,  or  settles,  of  rude  oak, 
elsewhere  supplied  their  place.  There  was  no  chimney,  except 
in  Nevile's  room,  and  in  that  appropriated  to  the  forge. 

To  this  chamber,  then,  resembling  a  dungeon  in  appearance, 
Sibyll  drew  the  student,  and  here,  from  an  old  worm-eaten 
chest,  she  carefully  extracted  a  gown  of  brown  velvet,  which 
his  father,  Sir  Armine,  had  bequeathed  to  him  by  will,  faded, 
it  is  true,  but  still  such  as  the  low-born  wore  not,*  trimmed 
with  fur,  and  clasped  with  a  brooch  of  gold.  And  then  she 
held  the  ewer  and  basin  to  him,  while  with  the  docility  of  a 
child  he  washed  the  smoke-soil  from  his  hands  and  face.  It 
was  touching  to  see  in  this,  as  in  all  else,  the  reverse  of  their 
natural  position — the  child  tending  and  heeding,  and  protect- 
ing, as  it  were,  the  father;  and  that  not  from  his  deficiency, 
but  his  greatness ;  not  because  he  was  below  the  vulgar  intelli- 
gences of  life,  but  above  them.  And  certainly,  when,  his  pa- 
triarchal hair  and  beard  smoothed  into  order,  and  his  velvet 
gown  flowing  in  majestic  folds,  around  a  figure  tall  and  com- 
manding, Sibyll  followed  her  father  into  Marmaduke's  cham- 
ber, she  might  well  have  been  proud  of  his  appearance.  And 

*  By  the  sumptuary  laws  only  a  knight  was  entitled  to  wear  velvet. 


56  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

she  felt  the  innocent  vanity  of  her  sex  and  age,  in  noticing  the 
half-start  of  surprise  with  which  Marmaduke  regarded  his  host, 
and  the  tone  of  respect  in  which  he  proffered  him  his  saluta- 
tions and  thanks.  Even  his  manner  altered  to  Sibyll ;  it  grew 
less  frank  and  affable,  more  courtly  and  reserved ;  and  when 
Madge  came  to  announce  that  the  refection  was  served,  it  was 
with  a  blush  of  shame,  perhaps,  at  his  treatment  of  the  poor 
gittern-player  on  the  pastime  ground,  that  the  Nevile  extended 
his  left  hand,  for  his  right  was  still  not  at  his  command,  to  lead 
the  damsel  to  the  hall. 

This  room,  which  was  divided  from  the  entrance  by  a 
screen,  and,  except  a  small  closet  that  adjoined  it,  was  the 
only  sitting-room  in  a  day  when,  as  now  on  the  Continent, 
no  shame  was  attached  to  receiving  visitors  in  sleeping  apart- 
ments, was  long  and  low;  an  old,  and  very  narrow  table,  that 
might  have  feasted  thirty  persons,  stretched  across  a  dais  raised 
upon  a  stone  floor;  there  was  no  rere-dosse,  or  fireplace,  which 
does  not  seem  at  that  day  to  have  been  an  absolute  necessity 
in  the  houses  of  the  metropolis,  and  its  suburbs;  its  place  being 
supplied  by  a  movable  brazier;  three  oak  stools  were  placed 
in  state  at  the  board,  and  to  one  of  these  Marmaduke,  in  a 
silence  unusual  to  him,  conducted  the  fair  Sibyll. 

"You  will  forgive  our  lack  of  provisions,"  said  Warner,  re- 
lapsing into  the  courteous  fashion  of  his  elder  days,  which  the 
unwonted  spectacle  of  a  cold  capon,  a  pasty,  and  a  flask  of 
wine,  brought  to  his  mind  by  a  train  of  ideas  that  actively 
glided  by  the  intervening  circumstances  which  ought  to  have 
filled  him  with  astonishment  at  the  sight,  "for  my  Sibyll  is  but 
a  young  housewife,  and  I  am  a  simple  scholar,  of  few  wants." 

"Verily,"  answered  Marmaduke,  finding  his  tongue  as  he 
attacked  the  pasty,  "I  see  nothing  that  the  most  dainty  need 
complain  of;  fair  mistress  Sibyll,  your  dainty  lips  will  not,  I 
trow,  refuse  me  the  waisall.  *  To  you  also,  worshipful  sir! 
Gramercy!  it  seems  that  there  is  nothing  which  better  stirs  a 
man  's  appetite  than  a  sick  bed.  And,  speaking  thereof,  deign 
to  inform  me,  kind  sir,  how  long  I  have  been  indebted  to  your 
hospitality.  Of  a  surety,  this  pasty  hath  an  excellent  flavor, 
and  if  not  venison,  is  something  better.  But  to  return,  it 
amazes  me  much  to  think  what  time  hath  passed  since  my  en- 
counter with  the  robbers." 

"They  were  robbers,  then,  who  so  cruelly  assailed  thee?" 
observed  Sibyll. 

"Have  I  not  said  so — surely,  who  else?     And,  as  I  was  re- 

*  /,<.,  Waissail  or  wassal ;  the  spelling  of  the  time  is  adopted  in  the  text, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  5") 

marking  to  your  worshipful  father,  whether  this  mischance 
happened  hours,  days,  months,  or  years  ago,  beshrew  me  if  I 
can  venture  the  smallest  guess." 

Master  Warner  smiled,  and  observing  that  some  reply  was 
expected  from  him,  said:  "Why,  indeed,  young  sir,  I  fear  I 
am  almost  as  oblivious  as  yourself.  It  was  not  yesterday  that 
you  arrived,  nor  the  day  before,  nor — Sibyll,  my  child,  how 
long  is  it  since  this  gentleman  hath  been  our  guest?" 

"This  is  the  fifth  day,"  answered  Sibyll. 

"So  long!  and  I  like  a  senseless  log  by  the  wayside,  when 
others  are  pushing  on  bit  and  spur,  to  the  great  road.  I  pray 
you,  sir,  tell  me  the  news  of  the  morning.  The  Lord  Warwick 
is  still  in  London — the  Court  still  at  the  Tower?" 

Poor  Adam,  whose  heart  was  with  his  model,  and  who  had 
now  satisfied  his  temperate  wants,  looked  somewhat  bewildered 
and  perplexed  by  this  question:  "The  King,  save  'his  honored 
head,"  said  he,  inclining  his  own, -"is,  I  fear  me,  always  at  the 
Tower  since  his  unhappy  detention,  but  he  minds  it  not,  sir — 
he  heeds  it  not;  his  soul  is  not  on  this  side  Paradise." 

Sibyll  uttered  a  faint  exclamation  of  fear  at  this  dangerous 
indiscretion  of  her  father's  absence  of  mind;  and,  drawing 
closer  to  Nevile,  she  put  her  hand  with  touching  confidence  on 
his  arm,  and  whispered:  "You  will  not  repeat  this,  sir!  .  My 
father  lives  only  in  his  studies,  and  he  has  never  known  but 
one  king!" 

Marmaduke  turned  his  bold  face  to  the  maid,  and  pointed  to 
the  salt-cellar,  as  he  answered  in  the  same  tone:  "Does  the 
brave  man  betray  his  host?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Marmaduke  rose.  "I  fear," 
said  he,  '  'that  I  must  now  leave  you ;  and,  while  it  is  yet  broad 
noon,  I  must  indeed  be  blind  if  I  again  miss  rny  way." 

This  speech  suddenly  recalled  Adam  from  his  meditations, 
for  whenever  his  kindly  and  simple  benevolence  was  touched, 
even  his  mathematics  and  his  model  were  forgotten.  "No, 
young  sir,"  said  he,  "you  must  not  quit  us  yet;  your  danger 
is  not  over.  Exercise  may  bring  fever.  Celsus  recommends 
quiet.  You  must  consent  to  tarry  with  us  a  day  or  two  more." 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  said  the  Nevile  hesitatingly,  "what  dis- 
tance it  is  to  the  Temple  Gate,  or  the  nearest  wharf  on  the 
river?" 

"Two  miles,  at  the  least,"  answered  Sibyll. 

"Two  miles! — and  now  I  mind  me,  I  have  not  the  accoutre- 
ments that  beseem  me.  Those  hildings  have  stolen  my  mantle 
(which  I  perceive,  by  the  way,  is  but  a  rustic  garment,  now 


58  THE    LAST   OF    THE    HARQNS. 

laid  aside  for  the  super-tunic),  and  my  hat  and  dague,  nor  have 
they  left  even  a  half-groat  to  supply  their  place.  Verily,  there- 
fore, since  ye  permit  me  to  burden  your  hospitality  longer,  I 
will  not  say  ye  nay,  provided  you,  worshipful  sir,  will  suffer  one 
of  your  people  to  step  to  the  house  of  one  Master  Heyford, 
goldsmith,  in  the  Chepe,  and  crave  one  Nicholas  Ahvyn,  his 
freedman,  to  visit  me.  I  can  commission  him,  touching  my 
goods  left  at  mine  hostelrie.,  and  learn  some  other  things  which 
it  behoves  me  to  know." 

"Assuredly.  Sibyll,  tell  Simon  or  Jonas  to  put  himself 
under  our  guest's  order." 

Simon  or  Jonas !  The  poor  Adam  absolutely  forgot  that 
Simon  and  Jonas  had  quitted  the  house  these  six  years !  How 
could  he  look  on  the  capon,  the  wine,  and  the  velvet  gown 
trimmed  with  fur,  and  not  fancy  himself  back  in  the  heyday  of 
his  wealth? 

Sibyll  half-smiled  and  half-sighed,  as  she  withdrew  to  con- 
sult with  her  sole  counsellor,  Madge,  how  the  guest's  orders 
were  to  be  obeyed,  and  how,  alas,  the  board  was  to  be  replen- 
ished for  the  evening  meal.  But  in  both  these  troubles  she 
was  more  fortunate  than  she  anticipated.  Madge  had  sold  the 
broken  gittern,  for  musical  instruments  were  then,  compara- 
tively speaking,  dear  (and  this  had  been  a  queen's  gift),  for 
sufficient  to  provide  decently  for  some  days,  and  elated  herself 
with  the  prospect  of  so  much  good  cheer,  she  readily  consented 
to  be  the  messenger  to  Nicholas  Alwyn. 

When,  with  a  light  step,  and  a  lighter  heart,  Sibyll  tripped 
back  to  the  hall,  she  was  scarcely  surprised  to  find  the  guest 
alone.  Her  father,  after  her  departure,  had  begun  to  evince 
much  restless  perturbation.  He  answered  Marmaduke's  que- 
ries but  by  abstracted  and  desultory  monosyllables,  and 
seeing  his  guest  at  length  engaged  in  contemplating  some  old 
pieces  of  armor  hung  upon  the  walls,  he  stole  stealthily  and 
furtively  away,  and  halted  not  till  once  more  before  his  be- 
loved model. 

Unaware  of  his  departure,  Marmaduke,  whose  back  was 
turned  to  him,  was,  as  he  fondly  imagined,  enlightening  his 
host  with  much  soldier-like  learning  as  to  the  old  helmets  and 
weapons  that  graced  the  hall.  "Certes,  my  host,"  said  he 
musingly,  "that  sort  of  casque,  which  has  not,  I  opine,  been 
worn  this  century,  had  its  merits;  the  visor  is  less  open  to  the 
arrows.  But,  as  for  these  chain  suits,  they  suited  only — I  ven- 
ture, with  due  deference,  to  declare — the  Wars  of  the  Crusades, 
where  the  enemy  fought  chiefly  with  dart  and  scymetar.  They 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  59 

would  be  but  a  sorry  defence  against  the  mace  and  battle- 
axe;  nevertheless  they  were  light  for  man  and  horse,  and,  in 
some  service,  especially  against  foot,  might  be  revived  with 
advantage.  Think  you  not  so?" 

He  turned,  and  saw  the  arch  face  of  Sibyll. 

"I  crave  pardon  for  my  blindness,  gentle  damsel,"  said  he, 
in  some  confusion,  "but  your  father  was  here  anon." 

"His  mornings  are  so  devoted  to  labor,"  answered  Sibyll, 
"that  he  entreats  you  to  pardon  his  discourtesy.  Meanwhile, 
if  you  would  wish  to  breathe  the  air,  we  have  a  small  garden 
in  the  rear";  and  so  saying,  she  led  the  way  into  the  small 
withdrawing-room,  or  rather  closet,  which  was  her  own  favor- 
ite chamber,  and  which  communicated,  by  another  door,  with 
a  broad,  neglected  grass-plot,  surrounded  by  high  walls,  having 
a  raised  terrace  in  front,  divided  by  a  low  stone  gothic  palisade 
from  the  green  sward. 

On  the  palisade  sate  droopingly,  and  half-asleep,  a  solitary 
peacock;  but  when  Sibyll  and  the  stranger  appeared  at  the 
door,  he  woke  up  suddenly,  descended  from  his  height,  and, 
with  "a  vanity  not  wholly  unlike  his  young  mistress's  wish  to 
make  the  best  possible  display  in  the  eyes  of  a  guest,  spread  his 
plumes  broadly  in  the  sun.  Sibyll  threw  him  some  bread, 
which  she  had  taken  from  the  table  for  that  purpose:  but  the 
proud  bird,  however  hungry,  disdained  to  eat,  till  he  had  thor- 
oughly satisfied  himself  that  his  glories  had  been  sufficiently 
observed. 

"Poor  proud  one,"  said  Sibyll,  half  to  herself  "thy  plumage 
lasts  with  thee  through  all  changes." 

"Like  the  name  of  a  brave  knight,"  said  Marmaduke,  who 
overheard  her. 

"Thou  thinkest  of  the  career  of  arms." 

"Surely — I  am  a  Nevile!" 

"Is  there  no  fame  to  be  won  but  that  of  a  warrior?" 

"Not  that  I  weet  of,  or  heed  for,  Mistress  Sibyll." 

"Thinkest  thou  it  were  nothing  to  be  a  minstrel,  who  gave 
delight?  A  scholar,  who  dispelled  darkness?" 

"For  the  scholar!  certes,  I  respect  holy  Mother  Church, 
which  they  tell  me  alone  produces  that  kind  of  wonder  with 
full  safety  to  the  soul,  and  that  only  in  the  higher  prelates  and 
dignitaries.  For  the  minstrel,  I  love  him — I  would  fight  for 
him — I  would  give  him  at  need  the  last  penny  in  my  gipsire. 
But  it  is  better  to  do  deeds  than  to  sing  them." 

Sibyll  smiled,  and  the  smile  perplexed,  and  half-displeased  the 
young  adventurer.  But  the  fire  of  the  young  man  had  its  charm. 


60  THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

By  degrees,  as  they  walked  to  and  fro  the  neglected  terrace, 
their  talk  flowed  free  and  familiar;  for  Marmailuke,  like  most 
young  men,  full  of  himself,  was  joyous  with  the  happy  egotism 
of  a  frank  and  careless  nature.  He  told  his  young  confidante  of 
a  day  his  birth,  his  history,  his  hopes,  and  fears;  and  in  return 
he  learned,  in  answer  to  the  questions  he  addressed  to  her,  so 
much,  at  least,  of  her  past  and  present  life,  as  the  reverses  of 
her  father,  occasioned  by  costly  studies;  her  own  brief  sojourn 
at  the  court  of  Margaret ;  and  the  solitude,  if  not  the  struggles, 
in  which  her  youth  was  consumed.  It  would  have  been  a  sweet 
and  grateful  sight  to  some  kindly  bystander  to  hear  these  pleas- 
ant communications  between  two  young  persons  so  unfriended, 
and  to  imagine  that  hearts  thus  opened  to  each  other  might 
unite  in  one.  But  Sibyll,  though  she  listened  to  him  with 
interest,  and  found  a  certain  sympathy  in  his  aspirations,  was 
ever  and  anon  secretly  comparing  him  to  one,  the  charm  of 
whose  voice  still  lingered  in  her  ears;  and  her  intellect,  culti- 
vated and  acute,  detected  in  Marmaduke  deficient  education, 
and  that  limited  experience  whu.h  is  the  folly  and  the  happi- 
ness of  the  young. 

On  the  other  hand,  whatever  admiration  Nevile  might  con- 
ceive was  strangely  mixed  with  surprise,  and,  it  might  almost 
be  said,  with  fear.  This  girl,  with  her  wise  converse  and  her 
child's  face,  was  a  character  so  thoroughly  new  to  him.  Her 
language  was  superior  to  what  he  had  ever  heard,  the  words 
more  choice,  the  current  more  flowing — was  that  to  be  attrib- 
uted to  her  court-training,  or  her  learned  parentage? 

"Your  father,  fair  mistress,"  said  he,  rousing  himself  in  one 
of  the  pauses  of  their  conversation — "your  father,  then,  is  a 
mighty  scholar,  and  I  suppose  knows  Latin  like  English?" 

"Why,  a  hedge  priest  pretends  to  know  Latin,"  said  Sibyll, 
smiling;  "my  father  is  one  of  the  six  men  living  who  have 
learned  the  Greek  and  the  Hebrew." 

"Gramercy!"  cried  Marmaduke,  crossing  himself.  "That 
is  awsome  indeed !  He  has  taught  you  his  lere  in  the  tongues?' ' 

"Nay,  I  know  but  my  own  and  the  French;  my  mother  was 
a  native  of  France." 

"The  Holy  Mother  be  praised!"  said  Marmaduke,  breathing 
more  freely;  "for  French  I  have  heard  my  father  and  uncle 
say  is  a  language  fit  for  gentles  and  knights,  specially  those 
who  come,  like  the  Neviles,  from  Norman  stock.  This  Marga- 
ret of  Anjou — didst  thou  love  her  well,  Mistress  Sibyll?" 

"Nay,"  answered  Sibyll,  "Margaret  commanded  awe,  but 
she  scarcely  permitted  love  from  an  inferior;  and  though  grr 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  6l 

clous  and  well-governed  when  she  so  pleased,  it  was  but  to 
those  whom  she  wished  to  win.  She  cared  not  for  the  heart,  if 
the  hand  or  the  brain  could  not  assist  her.  But,  poor  queen, 
who  could  blame  her  for  this? — her  nature  was  turned  from  its 
milk;  and,  when,  more  lately,  I  have  heard  how  many  she 
trusted  most  have  turned  against  her,  I  rebuked  myself  that — " 

"Thou  wert  not  by  her  side!"  added  the  Nevile,  observing 
her  pause,  and  with  the  generous  thought  of  a  gentleman  and 
a  soldier. 

"Nay,  I  meant  not  that  so  expressly,  Master  Nevile,  but 
rather  that  I  had  ever  murmured  at  her  haste  and  shrewdness 
of  mood.  By  her  side,  said  you?  Alas!  I  have  a  nearer  duty 
at  home;  my  father  is  all  in  this  world  to  me!  Thou  knowest 
not,  Master  Nevile,  how  it  flatters  the  weak  to  think  there  is 
some  one  they  can  protect.  But  eno'  of  myself.  Thou  wilt 
go  to  the  stout  Earl,  thou  wilt  pass  to  the  court,  thou  wilt  win 
the  gold  spurs,  and  thou  wilt  fight  with  the  strong  hand,  and 
leave  others  to  cozen  with  the  keen  head." 

"She  is  telling  my  fortune!"  muttered  Marmaduke,  cross- 
ing himself  again.  "The  gold  spurs — I  thank  thee,  Mistress 
Sibyll!— will  it  be  on  the  battlefield  that  I  shall  be  knighted, 
and  by  whose  hand?" 

Sibyll  glanced  her  bright  eye  at  the  questioner,  and  seeing 
his  wistful  face,  laughed  outright. 

"What,  thinkest  thou,  Master  Nevile,  I  can  read  thee  all 
riddles  without  my  sieve  and  my  shears?" 

"They  are  essentials,  then,  Mistress  Sibyll?"  said  the  Nevile, 
with  blunt  simplicity.  "I  thought  ye  more  learned  damozels 
might  tell  by  the  palm,  or  the — why  dost  thou  laugh  at  me?" 

"Nay,"  answered  Sibyll,  composing  herself.  "It  is  my  right 
to  be  angered.  Sith  thou  wouldst  take  me  to  be  a  witch,  all 
that  I  can  tell  thee  of  thy  future  (she  added  touchingly)  is  from 
that  which  I  have  seen  of  thy  past.  Thou  hast  a  brave  heart, 
and  a  gentle ;  thou  hast  a  frank  tongue,  and  a  courteous ;  and 
these  qualities  make  men  honored  and  loved — except  they  have 
the  gifts  which  turn  all  into  gall,  and  bring  oppression  for  honor, 
and  hate  for  love." 

"And  those  gifts,  gentle  Sibyll?" 

"Are  my  father's,"  answered  the  girl,  with  another  and  a 
sadder  change  in  her  expressive  countenance.  And  the  con- 
versation flagged  till  Marmaduke,  feeling  more  weakened  by  his 
loss  of  blood  than  he  had  conceived  it  possible,  retired  to  his 
chamber  to  repose  himself. 


62  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MASTER  MARMADUKE   NEVILE  FEARS  FOR    THE  SPIRITUAL  WEAl 
OF  HIS  HOST  AND  HOSTESS. 

BEFORE  the  hour  of  supper,  which  was  served  at  six  o'clock, 
Nicholas  Alwyn  arrived  at  the  house  indicated  to  him  by  Madge. 
Marmaduke,  after  a  sound  sleep,  which  was  little  flattering  to 
Sibyll's  attractions,  had  descended  to  the  hall  in  search  of  the 
maiden  and  his  host,  and  finding  no  one,  had  sauntered  in  ex- 
treme weariness  and  impatience  into  the  little  withdrawing 
closet,  where,  as  it  was  now  dusk,  burned  a  single  candle  in  a 
melancholy  and  rusted  scone;  standing  by  the  door  that  opened 
on  the  garden  he  amused  himself  with  watching  the  peacock, 
when  his  friend,  following  Madge  into  the  chamber,  tapped  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Well,  Master  Nevile.  Ha!  by  St.  Thomas,  what  has 
chanced  to  thee?  Thine  arm  swathed  up,  thy  locks  shorn,  thy 
face  blanched!  My  honored  foster-brother,  thy  Westmoreland 
blood  seems  over-hot  for  Cockaigne!" 

"If  so,  there  are  plenty  in  this  city  of  cut-throats  to  let  out 
the  surplusage,"  returned  Marmaduke;  and  he  briefly  related 
his  adventure  to  Nicholas. 

When  he  had  done,  the  kind  trader  reproached  himself  for 
having  suffered  Marmaduke  to  find  his  way  alone.  "The  sub- 
urbs abound  with  these  miscreants,"  said  he;  "and  there  is 
more  danger  in  a  night-walk  near  London,  than  in  the  loneliest 
glens  of  green  Sherwood — more  shame  to  the  city!  An'  I  be 
Lord  Mayor,  one  of  these  days,  I  will  look  to  it  better.  But 
our  civil  wars  make  men  hold  human  life  very  cheap,  and 
there's  parlous  little  care  from  the  great,  of  the  blood  and  limbs 
of  the  wayfarers.  But  war  makes  thieves — and  peace  hangs 
them!  Only  wait  till  I  manage  affairs!" 

"Many  thanks  to  thee,  Nicholas,"  returned  the  Nevile; 
"but  foul  befall  me  if  ever  I  seek  protection  from  sheriff  or 
mayor!  A  man  who  cannot  keep  his  own  life  with  his  own 
right  hand,  merits  well  to  hap-loseit;  and  I,  for  one,  shall 
think  ill  of  the  day  when  an  Englishman  looks  more  to  the  laws 
than  his  good  arm  for  his  safety ;  but,  letting  this  pass,  I  be- 
seech thee  to  avise  me  if  my  Lord  Warwick  be  still  in  the 
city?" 

"Yes,  marry,  I  know  that  by  the  hostelries,  which  swarm 
with  his  badges,  and  the  oxen,  that  go  in  scores  to  the  sham- 
bles! It  is  a  shame  to  the  Estate  to  see  one  subject  so  great, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  63 

and  it  bodes  no  good  to  our  peace.  The  Earl  is  preparing  the 
most  magnificent  embassage  that  ever  crossed  the  salt  seas — I 
would  it  were  not  to  the  French,  for  our  interests  lie  contrary; 
but  thou  hast  some  days  yet  to  rest  here  and  grow  stout,  for  I 
would  not  have  thee  present  thyself  with  a  visage  of  chalk  to  a 
man  who  values  his  kind  mainly  by  their  thews  and  their  sinews. 
Moreover,  thou  shouldst  send  for  the  tailor,  and  get  thee 
trimmed  to  the  mark.  It  would  be  a  long  step  in  thy  path  to 
promotion,  an'  the  Earl  would  take  thee  in  his  train ;  and  the 
gaudier  thy  plumes,  why  the  better  chance  for  thy  flight. 
Wherefore,  since  thou  sayest  they  are  thus  friendly  to  thee 
under  this  roof,  bide  yet  awhile  peacefully — I  will  send  thee 
the  mercer  and  the  clothier  and  the  tailor  to  divert  thy  im- 
patience. And,  as  these  fellows  are  greedy,  my  gentle  and  dear 
Master  Nevile,  may  I  ask,  without  offence,  how  thou  art  pro- 
vided?" 

"Nay,  nay,  I  have  money  at  the  hostelrie,  an'  thou  wilt  send 
me  my  mails.  For  the  rest  I  like  thy  advice,  and  will  take  it." 

"Good!"  answered  Nicholas.  "Hem!  thou  seemest  to  have 
got  into  a  poor  house — a  decayed  gentleman,  I  wot,  by  the 
slovenly  ruin!" 

"I  would  that  were  the  worst,"  replied  Marmaduke,  solemn- 
ly, and  under  his  breath,  and  therewith  he  repeated  to  Nicholas 
the  adventure  on  the  pastime  ground,  the  warnings  of  the  tim- 
brel-girls, and  the  "awesome"  learning  and  strange  pursuits  of 
his  host.  As  for  Sibyll,  he  was  evidently  inclined  to  attribute 
to  glamour  the  reluctant  admiration  with  which  she  had  inspired 
him.  "For,"  said  he,  "though  I  deny  not  that  the  maid  is 
passing  fair — there  be  many  with  rosier  cheeks,  and  taller  by 
this  hand!" 

Nicholas  listened,  at  first,  with  the  peculiar  expression  of 
shrewd  sarcasm  which  mainly  characterized  his  intelligent  face, 
but  his  attention  grew  more  earnest  before  Marmaduke  had 
concluded. 

"In  regard  to  the  maiden,"  said,  he,  smiling  and  shaking  his 
head,  "it  is  not  always  the  handsomest  that  win  us  the  most — • 
while  fair  Meg  went  a  maying,  black  Mog  got  to  church — and 
I  give  thee  more  reasonable  warning  than  thy  timbrel-girls, 
when,  in  spite  of  thy  cold  language,  I  bid  thee  take  care  of 
thyself  against  her  attractions ;  for,  verily,  my  dear  foster- 
brother,  thou  must  mend,  and  not  mar  thy  fortune,  by  thy  love 
matters;  and  keep  thy  heart  whole  for  some  fair  one  with 
marks  in  her  gipsire,  whom  the  Earl  may  find  out  for  thee. 
Love  and  raw  pease  are  two  ill  things  in  the  porridge-pot,  But, 


64  THE    I,AST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

tin-  father! — I  mind  me  now  that  I  have  heard  of  his  name, 
through  my  friend  Master  Caxton,  the  mercer,  as  one  of  pro- 
digious skill  in  the  mathematics.  I  should  like  much  to  see 
him,  and,  with  thy  leave  (an1  he  ask  me),  will  tarry  to  supper. 
But  what  are  these!" — and  Nicholas  took  up  one  of  the  illum- 
inated MSS.  which  Sibyll  had  prepared  for  sale.  "By  the 
blood!  this  is  couthly  and  marvellously  blazoned." 

The  book  was  still  in  his  hand  when  Sibyll  entered.  Nicho- 
las stared  at  her,  as  he  bowed  with  a  stiff  and  ungraceful  em- 
barrassment, which  often  at  first  did  injustice  to  his  bold,  clear 
intellect,  and  his  perfect  self-possession  in  matters  of  trade  or 
importance. 

"The  first  woman  face,"  muttered  Nicholas  to  himself,  "I 
ever  saw  that  had  the  sense  of  a  man's.  And  by  the  rood, 
what  a  smile!" 

"Is  this  thy  friend,  Master  Nevile?"  said  Sibyll,  with  a  glance 
at  the  goldsmith.  "He  is  welcome.  But  is  it  fair  and  cour- 
teous, Master  Nelwyn — " 

"Alwyn,  an'  it  please  you,  fair  mistress.  A  humble  name, 
but  good  Saxon — which,  I  take  it,  Nelwyn  is  not,"  interrupted 
Nicholas. 

"Master  Alwyn,  forgive  me;  but  can  I  forgive  thee  so  readi- 
ly for  thy  espial  of  my  handiwork,  without  license  or  leave?" 

"Yours,  comely  mistress!"  exclaimed  Nicholas,  opening  his 
eyes,  and  unheeding  the  gay  rebuke — "why,  this  is  a  master- 
hand.  My  Lord  Scales — nay,  the  Earl  of  Worcester  himself, 
hath  scarce  a  finer  in  all  his  amassment." 

"Well,  I  forgive  thy  fault  for  thy  flattery;  and  I  pray  thee, 
in  my  father's  name,  to  stay  and  sup  with  thy  friend." 

Nicholas  bowed  low,  and  still  riveted  his  eyes  on  the  book 
with  such  open  admiration,  that  Marmaduke  thought  it  right  to 
excuse  his  abstraction  ;  but  there  was  something  in  that  admira- 
tion which  raised  the  spirits  of  Sibyll,  which  gave  her  hope 
when  hope  was  well-nigh  gone,  and  she  became  so  vivacious, 
so  debonair,  so  charming,  in  the  flow  of  a  gayety  natural  to  her, 
and  very  uncommon  with  English  maidens,  but  which  she  took 
partly,  perhaps,  from  her  French  blood,  and  partly  from  the  ex- 
ample of  girls  and  maidens  of  French  extraction  in  Margaret's 
court,  that  Nicholas  Alwyn  thought  he  had  never  seen  any  one 
so  irresistible.  Madge  having  now  served  the  evening  meal, 
put  in  her  head  to  announce  it,  and  Sibyll  withdrew  to  sum- 
mon her  father. 

"I  trust  he  will  not  tarry  too  long,  for  I  am  sharp  set!" 
muttered  Marmaduke,  "What  thinkest  thou  of  the  damozel?" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  65 

"Marry,"  answered  Alwyn  thoughtfully,  "I  pity  and  marvel 
at  her.  There  is  eno*  in  her  to  furnish  forth  twenty  court 
beauties.  But  what  good  can  so  much  wit  and  cunning  do  to 
an  honest  maiden?" 

"That  is  exactly  my  own  thought,"  said  Marmaduke;  and 
both  the  young  men  sunk  into  silence  till  Sibyll  re-entered  with 
her  father. 

To  the  surprise  of  Marmaduke,  Nicholas  Alwyn,  whose  less 
gallant  manner  he  was  inclined  to  ridicule,  soon  contrived  to 
rouse  their  host  from  his  lethargy,  and  to  absorb  all  the  notice 
of  Sibyll;  and  the  surprise  was  increased  when  he  saw  that  his 
friend  appeared  not  unfamiliar  with  those  abstruse  and  mysti- 
cal sciences  in  which  Adam  was  engaged. 

"What!"  said  Adam.  "You  know,  then,  my  deft  and 
worthy  friend,  Master  Caxton!  He  hath  seen  notable  things 
abroad — " 

"Which  he  more  than  hints,"  said  Nicholas,  "will  lower  the 
value  of  those  manuscripts  this  fair  damozel  has  so  couthly  en- 
riched: and  that  he  hopes,  ere  long,  to  show  the  Englishers 
how  to  make  fifty,  a  hundred — nay,  even  five  hundred  exemplars 
of  the  choicest  book,  in  a  much  shorter  time  than  a  scribe  would 
take  in  writing  out  two  or  three  score  pages  in  a  single  copy." 

"Verily,"  said  Marmaduke,  with  a  smile  of  compassion,  "the 
poor  man  must  be  somewhat  demented ;  for  I  opine  that  the 
value  of  such  curiosities  must  be  in  their  rarity — and  who 
would  care  for  a  book,  if  five  hundred  others  had  precisely  the 
same? — allowing  always,  good  Nicholas,  for  thy  friend's  vaunt- 
ing and  over-crowing.  Five  hundred!  By'r  lady,  there  would 
be  scarcely  five  hundred  fools  in  merry  England  to  waste  good 
nobles  on  spoilt  rags,  especially  while  bows  and  mail  are  so 
dear." 

"Young  gentleman,"  said  Adam  rebukingly,  "meseemeth 
that  thou  wrongest  our  age  and  country,  to  the  which,  if  we 
have  but  peace  and  freedom,  I  trust  the  birth  of  great  dis- 
coveries is  ordained.  Certes,  Master  Alwyn,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing to  the  goldsmith,  "this  achievement  may  be  readily  per- 
formed, and  hath  existed,  I  heard  an  ingenious  Fleming  say, 
years  ago,  for  many  ages  amongst  a  strange  people  *  known  to 
the  Venetians !  But  dost  thou  think  there  is  much  appetite 
among  those  who  govern  the  state  to  lend  encouragement  to 
such  matters?" 

"My  master  serves  my  Lord  Hastings,  the  King's  Chamber- 
lain, and  my  lord  has  often  been  pleased  to  converse  with  me, 

*  Query,  the  Chinese  ? 


66  THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

so  that  I  venture  to  say  from  my  knowledge  of  his  arfection  tc 
all  excellent  craft  and  lere,  that  whatever  will  tend  to  make 
men  wiser  will  have  his  countenance  and  favor  with  the  King." 

"That  is  it — that  is  it ! "  exclaimed  Adam,  rubbing  his  hands. 
"My  invention  shall  not  die!" 

"And  that  invention — " 

"Is  one  that  will  multiply  exemplars  of  books  without  hands; 
works  of  craft  without  'prentice  or  journeyman;  will  move 
wagons  and  litters  without  horses;  will  direct  ships  without  sails; 
will — but,  alack!  it  is  not  yet  complete,  and,  for  want  of  means, 
it  never  may  be." 

Sibyll  still  kept  her  animated  countenance  fixed  on  Alwyn, 
whose  intelligence  she  had  already  detected,  and  was  charmed 
with  the  profound  attention  with  which  he  listened.  But  her 
eye  glancing  from  his  sharp  features  to  the  handsome,  honest 
face  of  the  Nevile,  the  contrast  was  so  forcible,  that  she  could 
not  restrain  her  laughter,  though,  the  moment  after,  a  keen  pang 
shot  through  her  heart.  The  worthy  Marmaduke  had  been  in 
the  act  of  conveying  his  cup  to  his  lips — the  cup  stood  arrested 
midway,  his  jaws  dropped,  his  eyes  opened  to  their  widest  extent, 
an  expression  of  the  most  evident  consternation  and  dismay  spoke 
in  every  feature,  and,  when  he  heard  the  merry  laugh  of  Sibyll, 
he  pushed  his  stool  from  her  as  far  as  he  well  could,  and  sur- 
veyed her  with  a  look  of  mingled  fear  and  pity. 

"Alas!   thou  art  sure  my  poor  father  is  a  wizard  now?" 

"Pardie!"  answered  the  Nevile.  "Hath  he  not  said  so? 
Hath  he  not  spoken  of  wagons  without  horses,  ships  without 
sails?  And  is  not  all  this  what  every  dissour  and  jongleur  tells 
us  of  in  his  stories  of  Merlin?  Gentle  maiden,"  he  added 
earnestly,  drawing  nearer  to  her,  and  whispering  in  a  voice  of 
much  simple  pathos,  "thou  art  young,  and  I  owe  thee  much. 
Take  care  of  thyself.  Such  wonders  and  derring-do  are  too 
solemn  for  laughter." 

"Ah!"  answered  Sibyll,  rising,  "I  fear  they  are.  How  can 
I  expect  the  people  to  be  wiser  than  thou,  or  their  hard  natures 
kinder  in  their  judgment  than  thy  kind  heart  ?"  Her  low  and 
melancholy  voice  went  to  the  heart  thus  appealed  to.  Marma- 
duke also  rose,  and  followed  her  into  the  parlor,  or  withdraw- 
ing-closet,  while  Adam  and  the  goldsmith  continued  to  converse 
(though  Alwyn's  eye  followed  the  young  hostess),  the  former 
appearing  perfectly  unconscious  of  the  secession  of  his  other 
listeners.  But  Alwyn's  attention  occasionally  wandered,  and 
he  soon  contrived  to  draw  his  host  into  the  parlor. 

When  Nicholas  rose,  at  last,  to  depart,  he  beckoned  SibylJ 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  67 

aside:  "Fair  mistress,"  said  he,  with  some  awkward  hesitation, 
"forgive  a  plain,  blunt  tongue ;  but  ye  of  the  better  birth  are  not 
always  above  aid,  even  from  such  as  I  am.  If  you  would  sell 
these  blazoned  manuscripts,  I  can  not  only  obtain  you  a  noble 
purchaser,  in  my  Lord  Scales,  or  in  my  Lord  Hastings,  an 
equally  ripe  scholar,  but  it  may  be  the  means  of  my  procuring 
a  suitable  patron  for  your  father ;  and,  in  these  times,  the  scholar 
must  creep  under  the  knight's  manteline." 

"Master  Alwyn,"  said  Sibyll,  suppressing  her  tears,  "it  was 
for  my  father's  sake  that  these  labors  were  wrought.  We  are 
poor  and  friendless.  Take  the  manuscripts,  and  sell  them  as 
thou  wilt,  and  God  and  St.  Mary  requite  thee!" 

"Your  father  is  a  great  man,"  said  Alwyn,  after  a  pause. 

"But,  were  he  to  walk  the  streets,  they  would  stone  him," 
replied  Sibyll,  with  a  quiet  bitterness. 

Here  the  Nevile,  carefully  shunning  the  magician,  who,  in 
the  nervous  excitement  produced  by  the  conversation  of  a  mind 
less  uncongenial  than  he  had  encountered  for  many  years, 
seemed  about  to  address  him — here,  I  say,  the  Nevile  chimed 
in:  "Hast  thou  no  weapon  but  thy  bludgeon?  Dear  foster- 
brother,  I  fear  for  thy  safety." 

"Nay,  robbers  rarely  attack  us  mechanical  folk;  and  I  know 
my  way  better  than  thou.  I  shall  find  a  boat  near  York  House, 
so  pleasant  night  and  quick  cure  to  thee,  honored  foster-brother: 
I  will  send  the  tailor  and  other  craftsmen  to-morrow." 

"And  at  the  same  time,"  whispered  Marmaduke,  accompa- 
nying his  friend  to  the  door,  "send  me  a  breviary,  just  to  patter 
an  ave  or  so.  This  gray-haired  carle  puts  my  heart  in  a  trem- 
ble. Moreover,  buy  me  a  gittern — a  brave  one — for  the  dam- 
ozel.  She  is  too  proud  to  take  money,  and,  'fore  heaven,  I 
have  small  doubts  the  old  wizard  could  turn  my  hose  into 
nobles  an"  he  had  a  mind  for  such  gear.  Wagons  without 
horses — ships  without  sails,  quotha!" 

As  soon  as  Alwyn  had  departed,  Madge  appeared  with  the 
final  refreshment  called  "the  Wines,"  consisting  of  spiced  hip- 
pocras  and  confections,  of  the  former  of  which  the  Nevile 
partook  in  solemn  silence. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THERE    IS     A     ROD    FOR    THE    BACK     OF    EVERY    FOOL    WHO 
WOULD    BE    WISER    THAN    HIS   GENERATION. 

THE  next  morning,  when  Marmaduke  descended  to  the  hall, 
Madge,  accosting  him  on  the  threshold,  informed  him  that 


68  Till.    1    \M     OK    THE    UARONS. 

Mistress  Sibyll  was  unwell,  and  kept  her  chamber,  and  that 
Master  Warner  was  never  visible  much  before  noon.  He  was, 
therefore,  prayed  to  take  his  meal  alone.  "Alone"  was  a  word 
peculiarly  unwelcome  to  Marmaduke  Nevile,  who  was  an  ani- 
mal thoroughly  social  and  gregarious.  He  managed,  there- 
fore, to  detain  the  old  servant,  who,  besides  the  liking  a  skil- 
ful leech  naturally  takes  to  a  thriving  patient,  had  enough  of 
her  sex  about  her  to  be  pleased  with  a  comely  face  and  a 
t;  .iik,  good-humored  voice.  Moreover,  Marmaduke,  wishing 
to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  turned  the  conversation  upon  Warner 
and  Sibyll,  a  theme  upon  which  the  old  woman  was  well  dis- 
posed to  be  garrulous.  He  soon  learned  the  poverty  of  the 
mansion,  and  the  sacrifice  of  the  gittern ;  and  his  generosity 
and  compassion  were  busily  engaged  in  devising  some  means  to 
requite  the  hospitality  he  had  received  without  wounding  the 
pride  of  his  host,  when  the  arrival  of  his  mails,  together  with 
the  visits  of  the  tailor  and  mercer  sent  to  him  by  Alvvyn,  di- 
verted his  thoughts  into  a  new  channel. 

Between  the  comparative  merits  of  gowns  and  surcoats, 
broad-toed  shoes  and  pointed,  some  time  was  disposed  of  with 
much  cheerfulness  and  edification ;  but  when  his  visitors  had 
retired,  the  benevolent  mind  of  the  young  guest  again  recurred 
to  the  penury  of  his  host.  Placing  his  marks  before  him  on 
the  table  in  the  little  withdrawing  parlor,  he  began  counting 
them  over,  and  putting  aside  the  sum  he  meditated  devoting  to 
Warner's  relief.  "But  how,"  he  muttered — "how  to  get  him 
to  take  the  gold.  I  know,  by  myself,  what  a  gentleman  and  a 
knight's  son  must  feel  at  the  proffer  of  alms — pardie!  I 
would  as  lief  Alwyn  had  struck  me  as  offered  me  his  gipsire — 
the  ill-mannered,  affectionate  fellow!  I  must  think — I  must 
think — " 

And  while  still  thinking,  the  door  softly  opened,  and 
Warner  himself,  in  a  high  state  of  abstraction  and  revery, 
stalked  noiselessly  into  the  room,  on  his  way  to  the  garden,  in 
which,  when  musing  over  some  new  spring  for  his  invention, 
he  was  wont  to  peripatize.  The  sight  of  the  gold  on  the  table 
struck  full  on  the  philosopher's  eyes,  and  waked  him  at  once 
from  his  revery.  That  gold — oh,  what-  precious  instruments, 
what  learned  manuscripts  it  could  purchase!  That  gold,  it 
was  the  breath  of  life  to  his  model !  He  walked  deliberately 
up  to  the  table,  and  laid  his  hand  on  one  of  the  little  heaps. 
Marmaduke  drew  back  his  stool,  and  stared  at  him  with  open 
mouth. 

"Young  man,  what  wantest  thou  with  all  this  gold?"  said 


THE   L>ST   OF    THE   BARONS.  6$ 

Adam,  in  a  petulant,  reproachful  tone.  '  'Put  it  up — put  it  up! 
Never  let  the  poor  see  gold ;  it  tempts  them,  sir — it  tempts 
them."  And  so  saying,  the  student  abruptly  turned  away  his 
eyes,  and  moved  towards  the  garden. 

Marmaduke  rose  and  put  himself  in  Adam's  way: 

"Honored  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  "you  say  justly — what 
want  I  with  all  this  gold?  The  only  gold  a  young  man  should 
covet  is  eno'  to  suffice  for  the  knight's  spurs  to  his  heels.  If, 
without  offence,  you  would — that  is — ehem! — I  mean,  Gra- 
mercy!  I  shall  never  say  it,  but  I  believe  my  father  owed  your 
father  four  marks,  and  he  bade  me  repay  them.  Here,  sir!" 
He  held  out  the  glittering  coins;  the  philosopher's  hand  closed 
on  them  as  the  fish's  maw  closes  on  the  bait.  Adam  burst 
into  a  laugh,  that  sounded  strangely  weird  and  unearthly  upon 
Marmaduke's  startled  ear. 

"All  this  forme!"  he  exclaimed.  "For  me!  No — no! 
Not  for  »ie,  for  IT — I  take  it — I  take  it,  sir!  I  will  pay  it 
back  with  large  usury.  Come  to  me  this  day  year,  when  this 
world  will  be  a  new  world,  and  Adam  Warner  will  be — ha !  hai 
Kind  Heaven,  I  thank  thee!"  Suddenly  turning  away,  the 
philosopher  strode  through  the  hall,  opened  the  front  door, 
and  escaped  into  the  street. 

"By'r  Lady!"  said  Marmaduke,  slowly  recovering  his  sur- 
prise, "I  need  not  have  been  so  much  at  a  loss;  the  old  gentle- 
man takes  to  my  gold  as  kindly  as  if  it  were  mother's  milk. 
'Fore  Heaven,  mine  host's  laugh  is  a  ghastly  thing!"  So 
soliloquizing,  he  prudently  put  up  the  rest  of  his  money,  and 
locked  his  mails. 

As  time  went  on,  the  young  man  became  exceedingly  weary 
of  his  own  company.  Sibyll  still  withheld  her  appearance: 
the  gloom  of  the  old  hall,  the  uncultivated  sadness  of  the 
lonely  garden,  preyed  upon  his  spirits.  At  length,  impatient 
to  get  a  view  of  the  world  without,  he  mounted  a  high  stool 
in  the  hall,  and  so  contrived  to  enjoy  the  prospect  which  the 
unglazed  wicker  lattice,  deep  set  in  the  wall,  afforded.  But 
the  scene  without  was  little  more  animated  than  that  within — 
all  was  so  deserted  in  the  neighborhood !  The  shops  mean  and 
scattered,  the  thoroughfare  almost  desolate.  At  last,  he  heard 
a  shout,  or  rather  hoot,  at  a  distance ;  and,  turning  his  attention 
whence  it  proceeded,  he  beheld  a  figure  emerge  from  an  alley 
opposite  the  casement  with  a  sack  under  one  arm,  and  several 
books  heaped  under  the  other.  At  his  heels  followed  a  train 
of  ragged  boys  shouting  and  hallooing:  "The  wizard !  the  wiz- 
ard! Ah!— Bah!— The  old  devil's-kin!"  At  this  cry  the  dull 


7O  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

neighborhood  seemed  suddenly  to  burst  forth  into  life.  From 
the  casements  and  thresholds  of  every  house  curious  faces 
emerged,  and  many  voices  of  men  and  women  joined,  in  deeper 
li  i^s,  with  the  shrill  tenor  of  the  choral  urchins:  "The  wiz- 
ard! the  wizard! — out  at  daylight!"  The  person  thus  stigma- 
tized, as  he  approached  the  house,  turned  his  face,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  wistful  perplexity,  from  side  to  side.  His  lips 
moved  convulsively,  and  his  face  was  very  pale,  but  he  spoke 
not.  And  now,  the  children  seeing  him  near  his  refuge,  became 
more  outrageous.  They  placed  themselves  menacingly  before 
him,  they  pulled  his  robe;  they  even  struck  at  him;  and  one, 
bolder  than  the  rest,  jumped  up  and  plucked  his  beard.  At 
this  last  insult  Adam  Warner,  for  it  was  he,  broke  silence;  but 
such  was  the  sweetness  of  his  disposition  that  it  was  rather 
with  pity  than  reproof  in  his  voice  that  he  said : 

"Fie  little  one!  I  fear  me  thine  own  age  will  have  small 
honor  if  thou  mockest  mature  years  in  me." 

This  gentleness  only  served  to  increase  the  audacity  of  his 
persecutors  who  now,  momentarily  augmenting,  presented  a  for- 
midable obstacle  to  his  further  progress.  Perceiving  that  he 
could  not  advance  without  offensive  measures  on  his  own  part, 
the  poor  scholar  halted;  and  looking  at  the  crowd  with  mild 
dignity  he  asked:  "What  means  this,  my  children?  How  have 
I  injured  you?" 

"The  wizard — the  wizard!"  was  the  only  answer  he 
received. 

Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  strode  on  with  so  sudden 
a  step,  that  one  of  the  smaller  children,  a  curly-headed,  laugh- 
ing rogue  of  about  eight  years  old,  was  thrown  down  at  his 
feet,  and  the  rest  gave  way.  But  the  poor  man,  seeing  one  of 
his  foes  thus  fallen,  instead  of  pursuing  his  victory,  again 
paused,  and,  forgetful  of  the  precious  burdens  he  carried,  let 
drop  trie  sack  and  books,  and  took  up  the  child  in  his  arms. 
On  seeing  their  companion  in  the  embrace  of  the  wizard,  a 
simultaneous  cry  of  horror  broke  from  the  assemblage:  "He  is 
going  to  curse  poor  Tim!" 

"My  child! — my  boy!"  shrieked  a  woman,  from  one  of  the 
casements:  "Let  go  my  child!" 

On  his  part,  the  boy  kicked  and  shrieked  lustily,  as  Adam, 
bending  his  noble  face  tenderly  over  him,  said:  "Thou  art  not 
hurt,  child!  Poor  boy!  thinkest  thou  I  would  harm  thee?" 
While  he  spoke,  a  storm  of  missiles — mud,  dirt,  sticks,  bricks, 
stones, — from  the  enemy,  that  had  now  fallen  back  in  the  rear, 
burst  upon  him.  A  stone  struck  him  on  the  shoulder.  Then 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  ;t 

his  face  changed;  an  angry  gleam  shot  from  his  deep,  calm 
eyes;  he  put  down  the  child,  and  turning  steadily  to  the  grown 
people  at  the  windows,  said:  "Ye  train  your  children  ill — " 
picked  up  his  sack  and  books,  sighed  as  he  saw  the  latter 
stained  by  the  mire,  which  he  wiped  with  his  long  sleeve,  and 
too  proud  to  show  fear,  slowly  made  for  his  door.  Fortunately 
Sibyll  had  heard  the  clamor,  and  was  ready  to  admit  her  father, 
and  close  the  door  upon  the  rush  which  instantaneously  fol- 
lowed his  escape.  The  baffled  rout  set  up  a  yell  of  wrath,  and 
the  boys  were  now  joined  by  several  foes  more  formidable 
from  the  adjacent  houses.  Assured  in  their  own  minds  that 
some  terrible  execration  had  been  pronounced  upon  the 
limbs  and  body  of  Master  Tim,  who  still  continued  bellowing 
and  howling,  probably  from  the  excitement  of  finding  himself 
raised  to  the  dignity  of  a  martyr,  the  pious  neighbors  poured 
forth,  with  oaths,  and  curses,  and  such  weapons  as  they  could 
seize  in  haste,  to  storm  the  wizard's  fortress. 

From  his  casement  Marmaduke  Nevile  had  espied  all  that 
had  hitherto  passed,  and  though  indignant  at  the  brutality  of 
the  persecutors,  he  had  thought  it  by  no  means  unnatural.  "If 
men,  gentlemen  born,  will  read  uncanny  books,  and  resolve  to 
be  wizards,  why  they  must  reap  what  they  sow,"  was  the  logical 
reflection  that  passed  through  the  mind  of  that  ingenuous 
youth ;  but  when  he  now  perceived  the  arrival  of  more  impor- 
tant allies :  when  stones  began  to  fly  through  the  wicker  lat- 
tices ;  when  threats  of  setting  fire  to  the  house  and  burning  the 
sorcerer,  who  muttered  spells  over  innocent  little  boys,  were 
heard,  seriously  increasing  in  depth  and  loudness,  Marmaduke 
felt  his  chivalry  called  forth,  and,  with  some  difficulty,  opening 
the  rusty  wicket  in  the  casement,  he  exclaimed:  "Shame  on 
you,  my  countrymen,  for  thus  disturbing,  in  broad  day,  a 
peaceful  habitation !  Ye  call  mine  host  a  wizard.  Thus  much 
say  I  on  his  behalf:  I  was  robbed  and  wounded  a  few  nights 
since  in  your  neighborhood,  and  in  this  house  alone  I  found 
shelter  and  healing." 

The  unexpected  sight  of  the  fail  young  face  of  Marmaduke 
Nevile,  and  the  healthful  sound  of  his  clear  ringing  voice, 
produced  a  momentary  effect  on  the  besiegers,  when  one  of 
them,  a  sturdy  baker,  cried  out:  "Heed  him  not,  he  is  a  gob- 
lin! Those  devil-mongers  can  bake  ye  a  dozen  such  every 
moment,  as  deftly  as  I  can  draw  loaves  from  the  oven!" 

This  speech  turned  the  tide,  and  at  that  instant  a  savage- 
looking  man,  the  father  of  the  aggrieved  boy,  followed  by  his 
wife,  gesticulating  and  weeping,  ran  from  his  house,  waving  a 


72  THE    LAST    OF    T1IK    BARONS. 

torch  in  his  right  hand,  his  arm  bared  to  the  shoulder,  and  the 
cry  of  "Fire  the  door!  "  was  universal. 

In  fact,  the  danger  now  grew  imminent:  several  of  the  party 
were  already  piling  straw  and  fagots  against  the  threshold,  and 
Marmaduke  began  to  think  the  only  chance  of  life  to  his  host 
and  Sibyll  was  in  flight  by  some  back  way,  when  he  beheld  a  man, 
clad  somewhat  in  the  fashion  of  a  country  yeoman,  a  formid- 
able knotted  club  in  his  hand,  pushing  his  way,  with  Herculean 
shoulders,  through  the  crowd,  and  stationing  himself  before 
the  threshold  and  brandishing  aloft  his  formidable  weapon,  he 
exclaimed:  "What!  In  the  devil's  name,  do  you  mean  to  get 
yourselves  all  hanged  for  riot?  Do  you  think  that  King  Edward 
is  as  soft  a  man  as  King  Henry  was,  and  that  he  will  suffer  any 
one  but  himself  to  set  fire  to  people's  houses  in  this  way?  I 
dare  say  you  are  all  right  enough  on  the  main,  but  by  the  blood 
of  St.  Thomas,  I  will  brain  the  first  man  who  advances  a  step, 
by  way  of  preserving  the  necks  of  the  rest!" 

"A  Robin!  a  Robin!"  cried  several  of  the  mob.  "Itisour 
good  friend  Robin.  Hearken  to  Robin.  He  is  always  right!" 

"Ay,  that  I  am!"  quoth  the  defender;  "you  know  that  well 
enough.  If  I  had  my  way,  the  world  should  be  turned  upside 
down,  but  what  the  poor  folk  should  get  nearer  to  the  sun ! 
But  what  I  say  is  this,  never  go  against  law,  while  the  law  is 
too  strong.  And  it  were  a  sad  thing  to  see  fifty  fine  fellows 
trussed  up  for  burning  an  old  wizard.  So,  be  off  with  you, 
and  let  us,  at  least  all  that  can  afford  it,  make  for  Master  San- 
croft's  hostelrie,  and  talk  soberly  over  our  ale.  For  little,  I 
trow,  will  ye  work  now  your  blood's  up." 

This  address  was  received  with  a  shout  of  approbation.  The 
father  of  the  injured  child  set  his  broad  foot  on  his  torch,  the 
haker  chucked  up  his  white  cap,  the  ragged  boys  yelled  out, 
"A  Robin!  a  Robin!"  and  in  less  than  two  minutes  the  place 
was  as  empty  as  it  had  been  before  the  appearance  of  the 
scholar.  Marmaduke,  who,  though  so  ignorant  of  books,  was 
acute  and  penetrating  in  all  matters  of  action,  could  not  help 
admiring  the  address  and  dexterity  of  the  club-bearer;  and  the 
danger  being  now  over,  withdrew  from  the  casement  in  search 
of  the  inmates  of  the  house.  Ascending  the  stairs,  he  found 
on  the  landing-place,  near  his  room,  and  by  the  embrasure  of  a 
huge  casement  which  jutted  from  the  wall,  Adam  and  his 
daughter.  Adam  was  leaning  against  the  wall,  with  his  arms 
folded,  and  Sibyll,  hanging  upon  him,  was  uttering  the  softest 
and  most  soothing  words  of  comfort  her  tenderness  could 
suggest. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  73 

"My  child,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head  sadly,  "I 
shall  never  again  have  heart  for  these  studies — never.  A 
king's  anger  I  could  brave,  a  priest's  malice  I  could  pity;  but 
to  find  the  very  children,  the  young  race,  for  whose  sake  I  have 
made  thee  and  myself  paupers,  to  find  them  thus — thus — " 
He  stopped,  for  his  voice  failed  him,  and  the  tears  rolled  down 
his  cheeks. 

"Come  and  speak  comfort  to  my  father,  Master  Nevile!" 
exclaimed  Sibyll,  "come  and  tell  him  that  whoever  is  above 
the  herd,  whether,  knight  or  scholar,  must  learn  to  despise  the 
hootings  that  follow  it.  Father,  father,  they  threw  mud  and 
stones  at  the  king  as  he  passed  through  the  streets  of  London. 
Thou  art  not  the  only  one  whom  this  base  world  misjudges." 

"Worthy  mine  host!"  said  Marmaduke,  thus  appealed  to: 
"Algates,  it  were  not  speaking  the  truth  to  tell  thee  that  I 
think  a  gentleman  of  birth  and  quality  should  walk  the  thor- 
oughfares with  a  bundle  of  books  under  his  arm,  yet  as  for  the 
raptril  vulgar,  the  hildings  and  cullions  who  hiss  one  day  what 
they  applaud  the  next,  I  hold  it  the  duty  of  every  Christian 
and  well-born  man  to  regard  them  as  the  dirt  on  the  crossings. 
Brave  soldiers  term  it  no  disgrace  to  receive  a  blow  from  a 
base  hind.  An'  it  had  been  knights  and  gentles  who  had  in- 
sulted thee,  thou  mightest  have  cause  for  shame.  But  a  mob 
of  lewd  rascallions  and  squalling  infants — bah!  verily,  it  is 
mere  matter  for  scorn  and  laughter." 

These  philosophical  propositions  and  distinctions  did  not 
seem  to  have  their  due  effect  upon  Adam.  He  smiled,  how- 
ever, gently  upon  his  guest,  and  with  a  blush  over  his  pale 
face,  said:  "lam  rightly  chastised,  good  young  man;  mean 
was  I,  methinks,  and  sordid,  to  take  from  thee  thy  good  gold. 
But  thou  knowest  not  what  fever  burns  in  the  brain  of  a  man 
who  feels  that,  had  he  wealth,  his  knowledge  could  do  great 
things — such  things! — I  thought  to  repay  thee  well.  Now  the 
frenzy  is  gone,  and  I,  who  an  hour  agone  esteemed  myself  a 
puissant  sage,  sink  in  mine  own  conceit  to  a  miserable  blinded 
fool.  Child,  I  am  very  weak;  I  will  lay  me  down  and  rest." 

So  saying,  the  poor  philosopher  went  his  way  to  his  cham- 
ber, leaning  on  his  daughter's  arm. 

In  a  few  minutes  Sibyll  rejoined  Marmaduke,  who  had  re- 
turned to  the  hall,  and  informed  him  that  her  father  had  lain 
down  awhile  to  compose  himself. 

"It  is  a  hard  fate,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  with  a  faint  smile;  "a 
hard  fate,  to  be  banned  and  accused  by  the  world,  only  be- 
cause one  has  sought  to  be  wiser  than  the  world  is." 


74  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"Douce  maiden,"  returned  the  Nevile;  "it  is  happy  for  thee 
that  thy  sex  forbids  thee  to  follow  thy  father's  footsteps,  or  I 
should  say  his  hard  fate  were  thy  fair  warning." 

Sibyll  smiled  faintly,  and  after  a  pause,  said,  with  a  deep 
blush: 

"You  have  been  generous  to  my  father;  do  not  misjudge 
him.  He  would  give  his  last  groat  to  a  starving  beggar.  But 
when  his  passion  of  scholar  and  inventor  masters  him,  thou 
mightest  think  him  worse  than  miser.  It  is  an  over-noble 
yearning  that  ofttimes  makes  him  mean." 

"Nay,"  answered  Marmaduke,  touched  by  the  heavy  sigh 
and  swimming  eyes  with  which  the  last  words  were  spoken ; 
"I  have  heard  Nick  Alwyn's  uncle,  who  was  a  learned  monk, 
declare  that  he  could  not  constrain  himself  to  pray  to  be  de- 
livered from  temptation,  seeing  that  he  might  thereby  lose  an 
occasion  for  filching  some  notable  book!  For  the  rest,"  he 
added,  "you  forget  how  much  I  owe  to  Master  Warner's  hos- 
pitality." 

He  took  her  hand  with  a  frank  and  brotherly  gallantry  as  he 
spoke;  but  the  touch  of  that  small,  soft  hand,  freely  and  inno- 
cently resigned  to  him,  sent  a  thrill  to  his  heart — and  again  the 
face  of  Sibyll  seemed  to  him  wondrous  fair. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  which  Sibyll  was  the  first  to  break. 
She  turned  the  conversation  once  more  upon  Marmaduke's 
views  in  life.  It  had  been  easy  for  a  deeper  observer  than  he 
was  to  see,  that  under  all  that  young  girl's  simplicity  and 
sweetness,  there  lurked  something  of  dangerous  ambition.  She 
loved  to  recall  the  court-life  her  childhood  had  known,  though 
her  youth  had  resigned  it  with  apparent  cheerfulness.  Like 
many  who  are  poor  and  fallen,  Sibyll  built  herself  a  sad  conso- 
lation out  of  her  pride ;  she  never  forgot  that  she  was  well-born. 
But  Marmaduke,  in  what  was  ambition,  saw  but  interest  in 
himself,  and  his  heart  beat  more  quickly  as  he  bent  his  eyes 
upon  that  downcast,  thoughtful,  earnest  countenance. 

After  an  hour  thus  passed,  Sibyll  left  her  guest,  and  re- 
mounted to  her  father's  chamber.  She  found  Adam  pacing 
the  narrow  floor,  and  muttering  to  himself.  He  turned 
abruptly  as  she  entered,  and  said:  "Come  hither,  child;  I  took 
four  marks  from  that  young  man,  for  I  wanted  books  and 
instruments,  and  there  are  two  left — see — take  them  back  to 
him." 

"My  father,  he  will  not  receive  them.  Fear  not,  thou  shall 
repay  him  some  day." 

"Take  them,  I  say,  and  if  the  young  man  says  thee  nay, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  75 

why,  buy  thyself  gauds  and  gear,  or  let  us  eat,  and  drink,  and 
laugh.  What  else  is  life  made  for?  Ha!  ha!  Laugh,  child, 
laugh ! ' ' 

There  was  something  strangely  pathetic  in  this  outburst,  this 
terrible  mirth,  born  of  profound  dejection.  Alas  for  this  guile- 
less, simple  creature,  who  had  clutched  at  gold  with  a  huck- 
ster's eagerness — who,  forgetting  the  wants  of  his  own  child, 
had  employed  it  upon  the  service  of  an  Abstract  Thought,  and 
whom  the  scorn  of  his  kind  now  pierced  through  all  the  folds 
of  his  close- webbed  philosophy  and  self-forgetful  genius.  Aw- 
ful is  the  duel  between  MAN  and  THE  AGE  in  which  he  lives! 
For  the  gain  of  posterity  Adam  Warner  had  martyrized  exis- 
tence— and  the  children  pelted  him  as  he  passed  the  streets ! 
Sibyll  burst  into  tears. 

"No,  my  father,  no,"  she  sobbed,  pushing  back  the  money 
into  his  hands.  "Let  us  both  starve,  rather  than  you  should 
despond.  God  and  man  will  bring  you  justice  yet." 

"Ah!"  said  the  baffled  enthusiast,  "my  whole  mind  is  one 
sore  now.  I  feel  as  if  I  could  love  man  no  more.  Go,  and 
leave  me.  Go,  I  say!"  arid  the  poor  student,  usually  so  mild 
and  gall-less,  stamped  his  foot  in  impotent  rage.  Sibyll,  weep- 
ing as  if  her  heart  would  break,  left  him. 

Then  Adam  Warner  again  paced  to  and  fro  restlessly,  and 
again  muttered  to  himself  for  several  minutes.  At  last  he  ap- 
proached his  Model — the  model  of  a  mighty  and  stupendous 
invention ;  the  fruit  of  no  chimerical  and  visionary  science — a 
great  Promethean  THING,  that,  once  matured,  would  divide 
the  Old  World  from  the  New,  enter  into  all  operations  of  La- 
bor, animate  all  the  future  affairs,  color  all  the  practical  doc- 
trines, of  active  men.  He  paused  before  it,  and  addressed  it 
as  if  it  heard  and  understood  him:  "My  hair  was  dark,  and 
my  tread  was  firm,  when  one  night,  A  THOUGHT  passed  into  my 
soul — a  thought  to  make  Matter  the  gigantic  slave  of  Mind. 
Out  of  this  thought,  thou,  not  yet  born  after  five-and-twenty 
years  of  travail,  wert  conceived.  My  coffers  were  then  full, 
and  my  name  was  honored;  and  the  rich  respected,  and  the 
poor  loved  me.  Art  thou  a  devil,  that  has  tempted  me  to 
ruin;  or  a  god  that  has  lifted  me  above  the  earth?  I  am  old 
before  my  time,  my  hair  is  blanched,  my  frame  is  bowed,  my 
wealth  is  gone,  my  name  is  sullied.  And  all,  dumb  Idol  of 
Iron  and  the  Element,  all  for  thee!  I  had  a  wife  whom  I 
adored — she  died ;  I  forgot  her  loss  in  the  hope  of  thy  life.  I 
have  a  child  still — God  and  our  Lady  forgive  me — she  is  less 
dear  to  me  than  thou  hast  been.  And  now- -"the  old  man 


76  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

ceased  abruptly,  and  folding  his  arms,  looked  at  the  deaf  iron 
sternly,  as  on  a  human  foe.  By  his  side  was  a  huge  hammer, 
employed  in  the  toils  of  his  forge;  suddenly  he  seized  and 
swung  it  aloft.  One  blow,  and  the  labor  of  years  was  shattered 
into  pieces!  One  blow! — But  the  heart  failed  him,  and  the 
hammer  fell  heavily  to  the  ground. 

"Ay!"  he  muttered,  "true — true;  if  thou,  who  hast  de- 
stroyed all  else,  wert  destroyed  too,  what  were  left  me?  Is  it 
a  crime  to  murder  Man? — a  greater  crime  to  murder  Thought, 
which  is  the  life  of  all  men.  Come — I  forgive  thee!" 

And  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night,  the  Enthusiast  labored 
in  his  chamber,  and  the  next  day  the  remembrance  of  the  hoot- 
ings,  the  pelting,  the  mob,  was  gone — clean  gone  from  his 
breast.  The  Model  began  to  move — life  hovered  over  its 
wheels,  and  the  Martyr  of  Science  had  forgotten  the  very 
world  for  which  he,  groaning  and  rejoicing,  toiled ! 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

MASTER   MARMADUKE     NEVILE    MAKES     LOVE     AND    IS     FRIGHT- 
ENED. 

FOR  two  or  three  days  Marmaduke  and  Sibyll  were  neces- 
sarily brought  much  together.  Such  familiarity  of  intercourse 
was  peculiarly  rare  in  that  time,  when,  except  perhaps  in  the 
dissolute  court  of  Edward  IV.,  the  virgins  of  gentle  birth 
mixed  sparingly,  and  with  great  reserve,  amongst  those  of  op- 
posite sex.  Marmaduke,  rapidly  recovering  from  the  effect  of 
his  wounds,  and,  without  other  resource  than  Sibyll's  society, 
in  the  solitude  of  his  confinement,  was  not  proof  against  the 
temptation  which  one  so  young  and  so  sweetly  winning  brought 
to  his  fancy  or  his  senses  The  poor  Sibyll — she  was  no  fault- 
less paragon — she  was  a  rare  and  singular  mixture  of  many  op- 
posite qualities  in  heart  and  in  intellect !  She  was  one  moment 
infantine  in  simplicity  and  gay  playfulness;  the  next,  a  shade 
passed  over  her  bright  face,  and  she  uttered  some  sentence  of 
that  bitter  and  chilling  wisdom  which  the  sense  of  persecution, 
the  cruelty  of  the  world,  had  already  taught  her.  She  was, 
indeed,  at  that  age  when  the  Child  and  the  Woman  are  strug- 
gling against  each  other.  Her  character  was  not  yet  formed — 
a  little  happiness  would  have  ripened  it  at  once  into  the  richest 
bloom  of  goodness.  But  sorrow,  that  ever  sharpens  the  intel- 
lect, might  only  serve  to  sour  the  heart.  Her  mind  was  so  in- 
nately chaste  and  pure  that  she  knew  not  the  nature  of  the 
admiration  she  excited.  But  the  admiration  pleased  her  as  it 


fHE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  ^ 

pleases  some  young  child ;  she  was  vain  then,  but  it  was  an 
infant's  vanity,  not  a  woman's.  And  thus,  from  innocence 
itself,  there  was  a  fearlessness,  a  freedom,  a  something  endear- 
ing and  familiar  in  her  manner,  which  might  have  turned  a 
wiser  head  than  Marmaduke  Nevile's.  And  this  the  more, 
because,  while  liking  her  young  guest,  confiding  in  him,  raised 
in  her  own  esteem  by  his  gallantry,  enjoying  that  intercourse  of 
youth  with  youth,  so  unfamiliar  to  her,  and  surrendering  her- 
self the  more  to  its  charm  from  the  joy  that  animated  her  spir- 
its, in  seeing  that  her  father  had  forgotten  his  humiliation,  and 
returned  to  his  wonted  labors — she  yet  knew  not  for  the  hand- 
some Nevile  one  sentiment  that  approached  to  love.  Her 
mind  was  so  superior  to  his  own,  that  she  felt  almost  as  if  older 
in  years,  and  in  their  talk  her  rosy  lips  preached  to  him  in 
grave  advice. 

On  the  landing,  by  Marmaduke's  chamber,  there  was  a 
large  oriel  casement  jutting  from  the  wall.  It  was  only  glazed 
at  the  upper  part,  and  that  most  imperfectly,  the  lower  part 
being  closed  at  night,  or  in  inclement  weather,  with  rude  shut- 
ters. The  recess  formed  by  this  comfortless  casement  an- 
swered, therefore,  the  purpose  of  a  balcony ;  it  commanded  a 
full  view  of  the  vicinity  without,  and  gave  to  those  who  might 
be  passing  by  the  power  also  of  indulging  their  own  curiosity 
by  a  view  of  the  interior. 

Whenever  he  lost  sight  of  Sibyll,  and  had  grown  weary  of 
the  peacock,  this  spot  was  Marmaduke's  favorite  haunt.  It 
diverted  him,  poor  youth,  to  look  out  of  the  window  upon  the 
livelier  world  beyond.  The  place,  it  is  true,  was  ordinarily 
deserted,  but  still  the  spires  and  turrets  of  London  were  al- 
ways discernible — and  they  were  something. 

Accordingly,  in  this  embrasure  stood  Marmaduke,  when  one 
morning  Sibyll,  coming  from  her  father's  room,  joined  him. 

"And  what,  Master  Nevile,"  said  Sibyll,  with  a  malicious 
yet  charming  smile,  "what  claimed  thy  meditations?  Some 
misgiving  as  to  the  trimming  of  thy  tunic,  or  the  length  of  thy 
shoon?" 

"Nay,"  returned  Marmaduke  gravely,  "such  thoughts, 
though  not  without  their  importance  in  the  mind  of  a  gentle- 
man, who  would  not  that  his  ignorance  of  court  delicacies 
should  commit  him  to  the  japes  of  hjs  equals,  were  not  at  that 
moment  uppermost.  I  was  thinking — " 

"Of  those  mastiffs,  quarrelling  for  a  bone.     Avow  it." 

"By  our  Lady,  I  saw  them  not,  but  now  I  look,  they  are 
brave  dogs.  Ha! — seest  thou  how  gallantly  each  fronts  the 


7^  TI1K    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

other,  the  hair  bristling,  the  eyes  fixed,  the  tail  on  end,  the 
fangs  glistening.  Now  the  lesser  one  moves  slowly  round  and 
round  the  bigger,  who,  mind  you,  Mistress  Sibyll,  is  no  dul- 
lard, but  moves,  too,  quick  as  thought,  not  to  be  taken  un- 
awares. Ha!  that  is  a  brave  spring!  Heigh,  dogs,  heigh!  a 
good  sight — it  makes  the  blood  warm! — the  little  one  hath  him 
by  the  throat!" 

"Alack,"  said  Sibyll,  turning  away  her  eyes,  "can  you  find 
pleasure  in  seeing  two  poor  brutes  mangle  each  other  for  a 
bone?" 

"By  St.  Dunstan!  doth  it  matter  what  may  be  the  cause  of 
quarrel,  so  long  as  dog  or  man  bears  himself  bravely,  with  a 
due  sense  of  honor  and  derring-do.  See!  the  big  one  is  up 
again !  Ah !  foul  fall  the  butcher,  who  drives  them  away. 
Those  seely  mechanics  know  not  the  joyaunce  of  fair  fighting 
to  gentle  and  to  hound.  For  a  hound,  mark  you,  hath  noth- 
ing mechanical  in  his  nature.  He  is  a  gentleman  all  over — 
brave  against  equal  and  stranger,  forbearing  to  the  small  and 
defenceless,  true  in  poverty  and  need  where  he  loveth,  stern 
and  ruthless  where  he  hateth,  and  despising  thieves,  hildings, 
and  the  vulgar,  as  much  as  ever  a  gold  spur  in  King  Edward's 
court!  Oh!  certes,  your  best  gentleman  is  the  best  hound!" 

"You  moralize  to-day.  And  I  know  not  how  to  gainsay 
you,"  returned  Sibyll,  as  the  dogs,  reluctantly  beaten  off,  re- 
tired each  from  each,  snarling  and  reluctant,  while  a  small 
black  cur,  that  had  hitherto  sat  unobserved  at  the  door  of  a 
small  hostelrie,  now  coolly  approached  and  dragged  off  the 
bone  of  contention.  "But  what  say'st  thou  now?  See!  see! 
the  patient  mongrel  carries  off  the  bone  from  the  gentlemen- 
hounds.  Is  that  the  way  of  the  world?" 

"Pardie!  it  is  a  naughty  world,  if  so,  and  much  changed 
from  the  time  of  our  fathers,  the  Normans.  But  these  Saxons 
are  getting  uppermost  again,  and  the  yard-measure,  I  fear  me,  is 
more  potent  in  these  holiday  times  than  the  mace  or  the  battle- 
axe."  The  Nevile  paused,  sighed,  and  changed  the  subject: 
"This  house  of  thine  must  have  been  a  stately  pile  in  its  day. 
I  see  but  one  side  of  the  quadrangle  is  left,  though  it  be  easy 
to  trace  where  the  other  three  have  stood." 

"And  you  may  see  their  stones  and  their  fittings  in  the 
butcher's  and  baker's  stalls  over  the  way,"  replied  Sibyll. 

"Ay!"  said  the  Nevile,  "the  parings  of  the  gentry  begin  to 
be  the  wealth  of  the  varlets. ' ' 

"Little  ought  we  to  pine  at  that,"  returned  Sibyll,  "if  the 
varlets  were  but  gentle  with  our  poverty;  but  they  loathe  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  79 

humbled  fortunes  on  which  they  rise,  and  while  slaves  to  the 
rich,  are  tyrants  to  the  poor.'-' 

This  was  said  so  sadly,  that  the  Nevile  felt  his  eyes  overflow; 
and  the  humble  dress  of  the  girl,  the  melancholy  ridges  which 
evinced  the  site  of  a  noble  house,  now  shrunk  into  a  dismal 
ruin,  the  remembrance  of  the  pastime-ground,  the  insults  of 
\he  crowd,  and  the  broken  gittern,  all  conspired  to  move  his 
compassion,  and  to  give  force  to  yet  more  tender  emotions. 

"Ah!"  he  said  suddenly,  and  with  a  quick,  faint  blush 
over  his  handsome  and  manly  countenance — "ah,  fair  maid — 
fair  Sibyll! — -God  grant  that  I  may  win  something  of  gold  and 
fortune  amidst  yogider  towers,  on  which  the  sun  shines  so 
cheerily.  God  grant  it,  not  for  my  sake — not  for  mine;  but 
that  I  may  have  something  besidas  a  true  heart  and  a  stainless 
name  to  lay  at  thy  feet.  Oh,  Sibyll!  By  this  hand — by  my 
father's  soul — I  love  thee,  Sibyll!  Have  I  not  said  it  before? 
Well,  hear  me  now — I  love  thee!" 

As  he  spoke,  he  clasped  her  hand  in  his  own,  and  she 
suffered  it  for  one  instant  to  rest  in  his.  Then  withdrawing  it, 
and  meeting  his  enamoured  eyes  with  a  strange  sadness  in  her 
own  darker,  deeper,  and  more  intelligent  orbs,  she  said: 

"I  thank  thee — thank  thee  for  the  honor  of  such  kind 
thoughts ;  and  frankly,  I  answer  as  thou  hast  frankly  spoken. 
It  was  sweet  to  me,  who  have  known  little  in  life  not  hard  and 
bitter — sweet  to  wish  I  had  a  brother  like  thee,  and,  as  a 
brother,  I  can  love  and  pray  for  thee.  But  ask  not  more, 
Marmaduke.  I  have  aims  in  life  which  forbid  all  other  love ! ' ' 

"Art  thou  too  aspiring  for  one  who  has  his  spurs  to  win?" 

"Not  so;  but  listen.  My  mother's  lessons  and  my  own 
heart  have  made  my  poor  father  the  first  end  and  object  of  all 
things  on  earth  to  me.  I  live  to  protect  him,  work  for  him, 
honor  him,  and  for  the  rest — I  have  thoughts  thou  canst  not 
know,  an  ambition  thou  canst  not  feel.  Nay,"  she  added, 
with  that  delightful  smile  which  chased  away  the  graver 
thought  which  had  before  saddened  her  aspect,  "what  would 
thy  sober  friend  Master  Alwyn  say  to  thee,  if  he  heard  thou 
hadst  courted  the  wizard's  daughter?" 

"By  my  faith,"  exclaimed  Marmaduke,  "thou  art  a  very 
April — smiles  and  clouds  in  a  breath !  If  what  thou  despisest 
in  me  be  my  want  of  bookcraft,  and  such  like,  by  my  halidame 
I  will  turn  scholar  for  thy  sake;  and — " 

Here,  as  he  had  again  taken  Sibyll's  hand,  with  the  passion- 
ate ardor  of  his  bold  nature,  not  to  be  lightly  daunted  by  a 
maiden's  first  "No,"  a  sudden  shrill,  wild  burst  of  laughte*, 


80  THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

accompanied  with  a  gusty  fit  of  unmelodious  music  from  the 
street  below,  made  both  maiden  and  youth  start,  and  turn  their 
eyes:  there,  weaving  their  immodest  dance,  tawdry  in  their 
tinsel  attire,  their  naked  arms  glancing  above  their  heads  as  they 
waved  on  high  their  instruments,  went  the  timbrel-girls. 

"Ha!  ha!"  cried  their  leader,  "see  the  gallant  and  the 
witch-leman  !  The  glamour  has  done  its  work!  Foul  is  fair ! — 
foul  is  fair!  and  the  devil  will  have  his  own!" 

But  these  creatures,  whose  bold  license  the  ancient  chroni- 
cler records,  were  rarely  seen  alone.  They  haunted  parties  of 
pomp  and  pleasure ;  they  linked  together  the  extremes  of 
life — the  grotesque  Chorus  that  introduced  the  terrible  truth  of 
foul  vice  and  abandoned  wretchedness  in  the  midst  of  the 
world's  holiday  and  pageant.  So  now,  as  they  wheeled  into 
the  silent,  squalid  street,  they  heralded  a  goodly  company  of 
dames  and  cavaliers,  on  horseback,  who  were  passing  through 
the  neighboring  plains  into  the  park  of  Marybone,  to  enjoy  the 
sport  of  falconry.  The  splendid  dresses  of  this  procession, 
and  the  grave  and  measured  dignity  with  which  it  swept 
along,  contrasted  forcibly  with  the  wild  movements  and  disor- 
derly mirth  of  the  timbrel  players.  These  last  darted  round 
and  round  the  riders,  holding  out  their  instruments  for  largess, 
and  retorting,  with  laugh  and  gibe,  the  disdainful  look  or  sharp 
rebuke  with  which  their  salutations  were  mostly  received. 

Suddenly,  as  the  company,  two  by  two,  paced  up  the  street, 
Sibyll  uttered  a  faint  exclamation,  and  strove  to  snatch  her 
hand  from  the  Nevile's  grasp.  Her  eye  rested  upon  one  of 
the  horsemen  who  rode  last,  and  who  seemed  in  earnest  con- 
versation with  a  dame,  who,  though  scarcely  in  her  first  youth, 
excelled  all  her  fair  companions  in  beauty  of  face  and  grace 
of  horsemanship,  as  well  as  in  the  costly  equipments  of  the 
white  barb  that  caracolled  beneath  her  easy  hand.  At  the 
same  moment  the  horseman  looked  up  and  gazed  steadily  at 
Sibyll,  whose  countenance  grew  pale  and  flushed  in  a  breath. 
His  eye  then  glanced  rapidly  at  Marmaduke — a  half-smile 
passed  his  pale,  firm  lips ;  he  slightly  raised  the  plumed  cap 
from  his  brow,  inclined  gravely  to  Sibyll,  and,  turning  once 
more  to  his  companion,  appeared  to  answer  some  question  she 
addressed  to  him,  as  to  the  object  of  his  salutation,  for  her 
look,  which  was  proud,  keen,  and  lofty,  was  raised  to  Sibyll, 
and  then  dropped  somewhat  disdainfully,  as  she  listened  to  the 
words  addressed  her  by  the  cavalier. 

The  lynx  eyes  of  the  tymbesteres  had  seen  the  recognition; 
and  their  leader,  laying  her  bold  hand  on  the  embossed  bridle 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  l 

of  the  horseman,  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  shrill  and  loud  enough 
to  be  heard  in  the  balcony  above:  "Largess!  noble  lord, 
largess!  for  the  sake  of  the  lady  thou  lovest  best!" 

The  fair  equestrian  turned  away  her  head  at  these  words ; 
the  nobleman  watched  her  a  moment,  and  dropped  some 
coins  into  the  timbrel. 

"Ha!  ha!"  cried  the  tymbestere,  pointing  her  long  arm  to 
Sibyll,  and  springing  towards  the  balcony : 

"  The  cushat  would  mate 

Above  her  state, 
And  she  flutters  her  wings  round  the  falcon's  beak  ; 

But  death  to  the  dove 

Is  the  falcon's  love — 
Oh,  sharp  is  the  kiss  of  the  falcon's  beak !  " 

Before  this  rude  song  was  ended,  Sibyll  had  vanished  from  the 
place;  the  cavalcade  had  disappeared.  The  timbrel-players, 
without  deigning  to  notice  Marmaduke,  darted  elsewhere,  to 
ply  their  discordant  trade,  and  the  Nevile,  crossing  himself 
devoutly,  muttered:  "Jesu  defend  us!  Those  she  Will-o'-the- 
wisps  are  eno'  to  scare  all  the  blood  out  of  one's  body. 
What — a  murrain  on  them! — do  they  portend,  flitting  round 
and  round,  and  skirting  off,  as  if  the  devil's  broomstick  was 
behind  them?  By  the  mass!  they  have  frightened  away  the 
damozel,  and  I  am  not  sorry  for  it.  They  have  left  me  small 
heart  for  the  part  of  Sir  Launval." 

His  meditations  were  broken  off  by  the  sudden  sight  of 
Nicholas  Alwyn,  mounted  on  a  small  palfrey,  and  followed  by 
a  sturdy  groom  on  horseback,  leading  a  steed  handsomely 
caparisoned.  In  another  moment,  Marmaduke  had  descended, 
opened  the  door,  and  drawn  Alwyn  info  the  hall. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MASTER   MARMADUKE    NEVILE    LEAVES    THE   WIZARD'S    HOUSE 
FOR    THE    GREAT    WORLD. 

"RIGHT  glad  am  I,"  said  Nicholas,  "to  see  you  so  stout 
and  hearty,  for  I  am  the  bearer  of  good  news.  Though  I 
have  been  away,  I  have  not  forgotten  you ;  and  it  so  chanced 
that  I  went  yesterday  to  attend  my  Lord  of  Warwick  with  some 
nowches*  and  knackeries,  that  he  takes  out  as  gifts  and  exem- 
plars of  English  work.  They  were  indifferently  well  wrought, 
specially  a  chevesail,  of  which  the — " 

*  Nowches — buckles  and  other  ornaments. 


&2  Till.    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"Spare  me  the  fashion  of  thy  mechanicals,  and  come  to  the 
point,"  interrupted  Marmaduke  impatiently. 

"Pardon  me,  Master  Nevile.  I  interrupt  thee  not  when  thou 
talkest  of  bassinets  and  hauberks — every  cobbler  to  his  last. 
But,  as  thou  sayest,  to  the  point:  the  stout  Earl,  while  scan- 
ning my  workmanship,  for  in  much  the  chevesail  was  mine,  was 
pleased  to  speak  graciously  of  my  skill  with  the  bow,  of  which 
he  had  heard;  and  he  then  turned  to  thyself,  of  whom 
my  Lord  Montagu  had  already  made  disparaging  mention: 
when  I  told  the  Earl  somewhat  more  about  thy  qualities  and 
disposings;  and  when  I  spoke  of  thy  desire  to  serve  him  and 
the  letter  of  which  thou  art  the  bearer,  his  black  brows 
smoothed  mighty  graciously,  and  he  bade  me  tell  thee  to  come 
to  him  this  afternoon,  and  he  would  judge  of  thee  with  his  own 
eyes  and  ears.  Wherefore  I  have  ordered  the  craftsmen  to 
have  all  thy  gauds  and  gear  ready  at  thine  hostelrie,  and  I  have 
engaged  thee  henchmen  and  horses  for  thy  fitting  appearance. 
Be  quick:  time  and  the  great  wait  for  no  man.  So  take  what- 
ever thou  needest  for  present  want  from  thy  mails,  and  I  will 
send  a  porter  for  the  rest  ere  sunset." 

"But  the  gittern  for  the  damozel?" 

"I  have  provided  that  for  thee,  as  is  meet."  And  Nicholas, 
stepping  back,  eased  the  groom  of  a  case  which  contained  a 
gittern,  whose  workmanship  and  ornaments  delighted  the 
Nevile. 

"It  is  of  my  lord  the  young  Duke  of  Gloucester's  own 
musical-vender;  and  the  Duke,  though  a  lad  yet,  is  a  notable 
judge  of  all  appertaining  to  the  gentle  craft.*  So  dispatch, 
and  away! " 

Marmaduke  retired  to  his  chamber,  and  Nicholas,  after  a 
moment  spent  in  silent  thought,  searched  the  room  for  the 
hand-bell,  which  then  made  the  mode  of  communication  be- 
tween the  master  and  domestics.  Not  finding  this  necessary 
luxury,  he  contrived  at  last  to  make  Madge  hear  his  voice  from 
her  subterranean  retreat;  and,  on  her  arrival,  sent  her  in 
quest  of  Sibyll. 

The  answer  he  received  was,  that  Mistress  Sibyll  was  ill,  and 
unable  to  see  him.  Alwyn  looked  disconcerted  at  this  intelli- 
gence, but,  drawing  from  his  girdle  a  small  gipsire,  richly 
broidered,  he  prayed  Madge  to  deliver  it  to  her  young  mis- 
tress, and  inform  her  that  it  was  the  fruit  of  the  commission 
with  which  she  had  honored  him. 

*  For  Richard  III.'s  love  of  music,  and  patronage  of  musicians  and  minstrels,  see  th« 
discriminating  character  of  that  Prince  in  Sharon  Turner's  "  History  of  England,"  voU 
iv.,  p.  66. 


tHE    LAST    OF    THE   fe AROINT  £3 

"It  is  passing  strange, "  said  he,  pacing  the  hall  alone — 
"passing  strange,  that  the  poor  child  should  have  taken  such 
hold  on  me.  After  all,  she  would  be  a  bad  wife  for  a  plain 
man  like  me.  Tush!  that  is  the  trader's  thought  all  over. 
Have  I  brought  no  fresher  feeling  out  of  my  fair  village-green? 
Would  it  not  be  sweet  to  work  for  her,  and  rise  in  life,  with 
her  by  my  side?  And  these  girls  of  the  city — so  prim  and  so 
brainless! — as  well  marry  a  painted  puppet.  Sibyll!  Am  I 
dement?  Stark  wode?  What  have  I  to  do  with  girls  and  mar- 
riage? Humph!  I  marvel  what  Marmaduke  still  thinks  of 
her — and  she  of  him." 

While  Alwyn  thus  soliloquized,  the  Nevile,  having  hastily 
arranged  his  dress,  and  laden  himself  with  the  money  his  mails 
contained,  summoned  old  Madge  to  receive  his  largess,  and  to 
conduct  him  to  Warner's  chamber,  in  order  to  proffer  his  fare- 
well. 

With  somewhat  of  a  timid  step  he  followed  the  old  woman 
(who  kept  muttering  thanks  and  benedicites,  as  she  eyed  the 
coin  in  her  palm),  up  the  rugged  stairs,  and  for  the  first  time 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  student's  sanctuary.  No  answer 
came.  "Eh,  sir!  you  must  enter,"  said  Madge;  "an'  you 
fired  a  bombard  under  his  ear  he  would  not  heed  you."  So, 
suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  she  threw  open  the  door,  and 
closed  it  behind  him,  as  Marmaduke  entered. 

The  room  was  filled  with  smoke,  through  which  mirky  at- 
mosphere the  clear  red  light  of  the  burning  charcoal  peered 
out  steadily  like  a  Cyclop's  eye.  A  small,  but  heaving,  regu- 
lar, laboring,  continuous  sound,  as  of  a  fairy  hammer,  smote 
the  young  man's  ear.  But,  as  his  gaze  accustoming  itself  to 
the  atmosphere,  searched  around,  he  could  not  perceive  what 
was  its  cause.  Adam  Warner  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  room,  his  arms  folded,  and  contemplating  something  at  a 
little  distance,  which  Marmaduke  could  not  accurately  distin- 
guish. The  youth  took  courage  and  approached.  "Honored 
mine  host,"  said  he,  "I  thank  thee  for  hospitality  and  kind- 
ness, I  crave  pardon  for  disturbing  thee  in  thy  incanta — 
ehem! — thy — thy  studies,  and  I  come  to  bid  thee  farewell." 

Adam  turned  round  with  a  puzzled,  absent  air,  as  if  scarcely 
recognizing  his  guest;  at  length,  as  his  recollection  slowly 
came  back  to  him,  he  smiled  graciously,  and  said:  "Good 
youth,  thou  art  richly  welcome  to  what  little  it  was  in  my 
power  to  do  for  thee.  Peradventure,  a  time  may  come  when 
they  who  seek  the  roof  of  Adam  Warner  may  find  less  homely 
cheer,  a  less  rugged  habitation — for  look  you!"  he  exclaimed 


84  THE    LAST    OF   THE    BARONS. 

suddenly,  with  a  burst  of  irrepressible  enthusiasm,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  Nevile's  arm,  as,  through  all  the  smoke  and  grime 
that  obscured  his  face,  flashed  the  ardent  soul  of  the  tri- 
umphant Inventor — "look  you!  since  you  have  been  in  this 
house,  one  of  my  great  objects  is  well-nigh  matured — achieved. 
Come  hither, "  and  he  dragged  the  wondering  Marmaduke  to 
his  model,  or  Eureka,  as  Adam  had  fondly  named  his  contriv- 
ance. The  Nevile  then  perceived  that  it  was  from  the  interior 
of  this  machine  that  the  sound  which  had  startled  him  arose; 
to  his  eye  the  THING  was  uncouth  and  hideous;  from  the  jaws 
of  an  iron  serpent,  that,  wreathing  round  it,  rose  on  high  with 
erect  crest,  gushed  a  rapid  volume  of  black  smoke,  and  a 
damp  spray  fell  around.  A  column  of  iron  in  the  centre  kept 
in  perpetual  and  regular  motion,  rising  and  sinking  succes- 
sively, as  the  whole  mechanism  within  seemed  alive  with  noise 
and  action. 

"The  Syracusan  asked  an  inch  of  earth,  beyond  the  earth, 
to  move  the  earth,"  said  Adam;  "I  stand  in  the  world,  and 
lo!  with  this  engine  the  world  shall  one  day  be  moved." 

"Holy  Mother!"  faltered  Marmaduke;  "I  pray  thee,  dread 
sir,  to  ponder  well  ere  thou  attemptest  any  such  sports  with 
the  habitation  in  which  every  woman's  son  is  so  concerned. 
Bethink  thee,  that  if  in  moving  the  world  thou  shouldst  make 
any  mistake,  it  would — " 

"Now  stand  there  and  attend,"  interrupted  Adam,  who  had 
not  heard  one  word  of  this  judicious  exhortation. 

"Pardon  me,  terrible  sir!"  exclaimed  Marmaduke,  in  great 
trepidation,  and  retreating  rapidly  to  the  door;  '  'but  I  have 
heard  that  the  fiends  are  mightily  malignant  to  all  lookers  on, 
not  initiated." 

While  he  spoke,  fast  gushed  the  smoke,  heavily  heaved  the 
fairy  hammers,  up  and  down,  down  and  up,  sunk  or  rose  the 
column,  with  its  sullen  sound.  The  young  man's  heart  sank 
to  the  soles  of  his  feet. 

"In  deed  and  in  truth,"  he  stammered  out,  "I  am  but  a  dolt 
in  these  matters;  I  wish  thee  all  success  compatible  with  the 
weal  of  a  Christian,  and  bid  thee,  in  sad  humility,  good- 
day":  and  he  added,  in  a  whisper — "the  Lord's  forgiveness! 
Amen." 

Marmaduke,  then,  fairly  rushed  through  the  open  door,  and 
hurried  out  of  the  chamber  as  fast  as  possible. 

He  breathed  more  freely  as  he  descended  the  stairs.  "Be- 
fore I  would  call  that  gray  carle  my  father,  or  his  child  my 
wife,  may  I  feel  all  the  hammers  of  the  elves  and  spirits  he 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  85 

keeps  tortured  within  that  ugly  little  prison-house,  playing  a 
death's  march  on  my  body.  Holy  St.  Dunstan,  the  timbrel- 
girls  came  in  time!  They  say  these  wizards  always  have  fail 
daughters,  and  their  love  can  be  no  blessing!" 

As  he  thus  muttered,  the  door  of  Sibyll's  chamber  opened, 
and  she  stood  before  him  at  the  threshold.  Her  countenance 
was  very  pale,  and  bore  evidence  of  weeping.  There  was  a 
silence  on  both  sides,  which  the  girl  was  the  first  to  break. 

"So,  Madge  tells  me,  thou  art  about  to  leave  us?" 

"Yes,  gentle  maiden!  I — I — that  is,  my  Lord  of  Warwick 
has  summoned  me.  I  wish  and  pray  for  all  blessings  on  thee ! 
And — and — if  ever  it  be  mine  to  serve  or  aid  thee,  it  will  be — 
that  is — verily,  my  tongue  falters,  but  my  heart — that  is — fare 
thee  well,  maiden !  Would  thou  hadst  a  less  wise  father ;  and 
so  may  the  saints  (St.  Anthony  especially,  whom  the  Evil  One 
was  parlous  afraid  of)  guard  and  keep  thee!" 

With  this  strange  and  incoherent  address,  Marmaduke  left 
the  maiden  standing  by  the  threshold  of  her  miserable  cham- 
ber. Hurrying  into  the  hall,  he  summoned  Alwyn  from  his 
meditations,  and  giving  the  gittern  to  Madge,  with  an  injunc- 
tion to  render  it  to  her  mistress,  with  his  greeting  and  service, 
he  vaulted  lightly  on  his  steed;  the  steady  and  more  sober 
Alwyn  mounted  his  palfrey  with  slow  care  and  due  caution. 
As  the  air  of  spring  waved  the  fair  locks  of  the  young  cavalier, 
as  the  good  horse  caracolled  under  his  lightsome  weight,  his 
natural  temper  of  mind,  hardy,  healthful,  joyous,  and  world- 
awake,  returned  to  him.  The  image  of  Sibyll  and  her  strange 
father  fled  from  his  thoughts  like  sickly  dreams. 


BOOK  II. 
THE  KING'S  COURT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

EARL  WARWICK  THE  KING-MAKER. 

THE  young  men  entered  the  Strand,  which,  thanks  to  the 
profits  of  a  toll  bar,  was  a  passable  road  for  equestrians,  studded 
towards  the  river,  as  we  have  before  observed,  with  stately  and 
half-fortified  mansions;  while  on  the  opposite  side,  here  and 
there,  were  straggling  nouses  of  a  humbler  kind,  the  mediaeval 
villas  of  merchant  and  trader  (for  from  the  earliest  period 
•since  the  Conquest,  the  Londoners  had  delight  in  such  re- 


86  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

treats),  surrounded  with  blossoming  orchards,*  and  adorned  in 
front  with  the  fleur-de-lis,  emblem  of  the  vain  victories  of  re- 
nowned Agincourt.  But  by  far  the  greater  portion  of  the  road 
northward,  stretched,  unbuilt  upon,  towards  a  fair  chain  of 
fields  and  meadows,  refreshed  by  many  brooks,  "turning  water- 
mills  with  a  pleasant  noise."  High  rose,  on  the  thoroughfare, 
the  tamous  Cross,  at  which  "the  Judges  Itinerant  whilome  sate, 
without  London."!  There  hallowed  and  solitary,  stood  the 
inn  for  the  penitent  pilgrims,  who  sought  "the  murmuring 
runnels"  of  St.  Clement's  healing  well;  for  in  this  neighbor- 
hood, even  from  the  age  of  the  Roman,  springs  of  crystal  wave 
and  salubrious  virtue  received  the  homage  of  credulous  dis- 
ease. Through  the  gloomy  arches  of  the  Temple  Gate  and 
Lud,  our  horsemen  wound  their  way,  and  finally  arrived  in 
safety  at  Marmaduke's  hostelrie  in  the  East  Chepe.  Here 
Marmaduke  found  the  decorators  of  his  comely  person  already 
assembled.  The  simpler  yet  more  manly  fashions  he  had  taken 
from  the  provinces,  were  now  exchanged  for  an  attire  worthy 
the  kinsman  of  the  great  minister  of  a  court,  unparalleled,  since 
the  reign  of  William,  the  Red  King,  for  extravagant  gorgeous- 
ness  of  dress.  His  corset  was  of  the  finest  cloth,  sown  with 
seed  pearls ;  above  it,  the  lawn  shirt,  worn  without  collar,  par- 
tially appeared,  fringed  with  gold ;  over  this  was  loosely  hung 
a  super-tunic  of  crimson  sarcenet,  slashed  and  pounced  with  a 
profusion  of  fringes.  His  velvet  cap,  turned  up  at  the  sides, 
extended  in  a  point  far  over  the  forehead.  His  hose — under 
which  appellation  is  to  be  understood  what  serves  us  of  the 
modern  day  both  for  stockings  and  pantaloons — were  of  white 
cloth,  and  his  shoes,  very  narrow,  were  curiously  carved  into 
checker  work  at  the  instep,  and  tied  with  bobbins  of  gold  thread, 
turning  up  like  skates  at  the  extremity,  three  inches  in  length. 
His  dagger  was  suspended  by  a  slight  silver-gilt  chain,  and  his 
girdle  contained  a  large  gipsire,  or  pouch,  of  embossed  leather, 
richly  gilt. 

And  this  dress,  marvellous  as  it  seemed  to  the  Nevile,  the 
tailor  gravely  assured  him  was  far  under  the  mark  of  the  highest 
fashion,  and  that  an'  the  noble  youth  had  been  a  knight,  the 
shoes  would  have  stretched  at  least  three  inches  farther  over 
the  natural  length  of  the  feet,  the  placard  have  shone  with  jewels, 
and  the  tunic  luxuriated  in  flowers  of  damascene.  Even  as  it 
was,  however,  Marmaduke  felt  a  natural  diffidence  of  his  habili- 
ments, which  cost  him  a  round  third  of  his  whole  capital.  And 

*  Fitzstephen — *'  On  all  sides,  without  the  suburbs,  are  the  citizens'  gardens  and 
orchards,"  etc, 

t  Stowe. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  87 

no  bride  ever  unveiled  herself  with  more  shamefaced  bashful- 
ness  than  did  Marmaduke  Nevile  experience  when  he  remounted 
his  horse,  and,  taking  leave  of  his  foster-brother,  bent  his  way 
to  Warwick  Lane,  where  the  Earl  lodged. 

The  narrow  streets  were,  however,  crowded  with  equestrians 
whose  dress  eclipsed  his  own,  some  bending  their  way  to  the 
Tower,  some  to  the  palaces  of  the  Flete.  Carriages  there  were 
none,  and  only  twice  he  encountered  the  huge  litters,  in  which 
some  aged  prelate  or  some  highborn  dame  veiled  greatness  from 
the  day.  But  the  frequent  vistas  to  the  river  gave  glimpses  of 
the  gay  boats  and  barges  that  crowded  the  Thames,  which  was 
then  the  principal  thoroughfare  for  every  class,  but  more  es- 
pecially the  noble.  The  ways  were  fortunately  dry  and  clean 
for  London ;  though  occasionally  deep  holes  and  furrows  in  the 
road  menaced  perils  to  the  unwary  horseman.  The  streets 
themselves  might  well  disappoint  in  splendor  the  stranger's  eye; 
for  although,  viewed  at  a  distance,  ancient  London  was  incalcula- 
bly more  picturesque  and  stately  than  the  modern, — yet,  when 
fairly  in  its  tortuous  labyrinths,  it  seemed  to  those  who  had 
improved  the  taste  by  travel,  the  meanest  and  the  mirkiest  capi- 
tal of  Christendom.  The  streets  were  marvellously  narrow, 
the  upper  stories,  chiefly  of  wood,  projecting  far  over  the  lower, 
which  were  formed  of  mud  and  plaster.  The  shops  were  piti- 
ful booths,  and  the  'prentices  standing  at  the  entrance  bare- 
headed and  cap  in  hand,  and  lining  the  passages,  as  the  old 
French  writer  avers,  comme  idoles*  kept  up  an  eternal  din 
with  their  clamorous  invitations,  often  varied  by  pert  witticisms 
on  some  churlish  passenger,  or  loud  vituperations  of  each 
other.  The  whole  ancient  family  of  the  London  criers  were 
in  full  bay.  Scarcely  had  Marmaduke's  ears  recovered  the 
shock  of  "Hot  peascods — all  hot,"  than  they  were  saluted  with 
"mackerel,"  "sheep's  feet — hot  sheep's  feet."  At  the  smaller 
taverns  stood  the  inviting  vociferators  of  "cock-pie,"  "ribs  of 
beef — hot  beef, "  while,  blended  with  these  multitoned  discords, 
whined  the  vielle  or  primitive  hurdy-gurdy,  screamed  the  pipe, 
twanged  the  harp,  from  every  quarter  where  the  thirsty  paused 
to  drink,  or  the  idler  stood  to  gape.f 

Through  this  Babel  Marmaduke  at  last  slowly  wound  his  way, 
and  arrived  before  the  mighty  mansion  in  which  the  chief  baron 
of  England  held  his  state. 

As  he  dismounted  and  resigned  his  steed  to  the  servitor  hired 
for  him  by  Alwyn,  Marmaduke  paused  a  moment,  struck  by  the 
disparity,  common  as  it  was  to  eyes  more  accustomed  to  the 

*  Perlin,  t  See  Lydgate's  "  London  Lyckpenny." 


83  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

metropolis,  between  the  stately  edifice  and  the  sordid  neighbor- 
hood. He  had  not  noticed  this  so  much,  when  he  had  repaired 
to  the  Earl's  house  on  his  first  arrival  in  London,  for  his 
thoughts  then  had  been  too  much  bewildered  by  the  general 
bustle  and  novelty  of  the  scene:'  but  now  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  better  comprehended  the  homage  accorded  to  a  great  noble 
in  surveying,  at  a  glance,  the  immeasurable  eminence  to  which 
he  was  elevated  above  his  fellow-men  by  wealth  and  rank. 

Far  on  either  side  of  the  wings  of  the  Earl's  abode  stretched, 
in  numerous  deformity,  sheds  rather  than  houses,  of  broken 
plaster  and  crazy  timbers.  But  here  and  there  were"  open 
places  of  public  reception,  crowded  with  the  lower  followers  of 
the  puissant  chief;  and  the  eye  rested  on  many  idle  groups  of 
sturdy  swash-bucklers,  some  half-clad  in  armor,  some  in  rude 
jerkins  of  leather,  before  the  doors  of.  these  resorts — as  others, 
like  bees  about  a  hive,  swarmed  in  and  out  with  a  perpetual 
hum. 

The  exterior  of  Warwick  House  was  of  a  gray  but  dingy 
stone,  and  presented  a  half-fortified  and  formidable  appearance. 
The  windows,  or  rather  loop-holes,  towards  the  street,  were 
few,  and  strongly  barred.  The  black  and  massive  arch  of  the 
gateway  yawned  between  two  huge  square  towers ;  and  from  a 
yet  higher,  but  slender  tower  on  the  inner  side,  the  flag  gave 
the  "White  Bear  and  Ragged  Staff"  to  the  smoky  air.  Still, 
under  the  portal  as  he  entered,  hung  the  grate  of  the  portcullis, 
and  the  square  court  which  he  saw  before  him  swarmed  with 
the  more  immediate  retainers  of  the  Earl,  in  scarlet  jackets, 
wrought  with  their  chieftain's  cognizance.  A  man  of  gigantic 
girth  and  stature,  who  officiated  as  porter,  leaning  against  the 
wall  under  the  arch,  now  emerged  from  the  shadow,  and  with 
sufficient  civility  demanded  the  young  visitor's  name  and  busi- 
ness. On  hearing  the  former,  he  bowed  low  as  he  doffed  his 
cap,  and  conducted  Marmaduke  through  the  first  quadrangle. 
The  two  sides  to  the  right  and  left  were  devoted  to  the  offices 
and  rooms  of  retainers,  of  whom  no  less  than  six  hundred,  not 
to  speak  of  the  domestic  and  more  orderly  retinue,  attested  the 
state  of  the  Last  of  the  English  Barons  on  his  visits  to  the  capi- 
tal. Far  from  being  then,  as  now,  the  object  of  the  great  to 
thrust  all  that  belongs  to  the  service  of  the  house  out  of  sight, 
it  was  their  pride  to  strike  awe  into  the  visitor  by  the  extent  of 
accommodation  afforded  to  their  followers:  some  seated  on 
benches  of  stone  ranged  along  the  walls ;  some  grouped  in  the 
centre  of  the  court ;  some  lying  at  length  upon  the  two  oblong 
patches  of  what  had  been  turf,  till  worn  away  by  frequent  feet--' 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  89 

this  domestic  army  filled  the  young  Nevile  with  an  admiration 
far  greater  than  the  gay  satins  of  the  knights  and  nobles  who 
had  gathered  round  the  Lord  of  Montagu  and  Northumberland 
at  the  pastime-ground. 

This  assemblage,  however,  were  evidently  under  a  rude  disci- 
pline of  their  own.  They  were  neither  noisy  nor  drunk.  They 
made  way  with  surly  obeisance  as  the  cavalier  passed,  and  clos- 
ing on  his  track  like  some  horde  of  wild  cattle,  gazed  after  him 
with  earnest  silence,  and  then  turned  once  more  to  their  indo- 
lent whispers  with  each  other. 

And  now,  Nevile  entering  the  last  side  of  the  quadrangle, 
the  huge  hall,  divided  from  the  passage  by  a  screen  of  stone 
fret-work,  so  fine  as  to  attest  the  hand  of  some  architect  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  III.,  stretched  to  his  right;  and  so  vast,  in 
truth  it  was,  that  though  more  than  fifty  persons  were  variously 
engaged  therein,  their  number  was  lost  in  the  immense  space ; 
of  these,  at  one  end  of  the  longer  and  lower  table  beneath  tfye 
dais,  some  squires  of  good  dress  and  mien  were  engaged  at  chess 
or  dice;  others  were  conferring  in  the  gloomy  embrasures  of 
the  casements ;  some  walking  to  and  fro;  others  gathered  round 
the  shovel-board.  At  the  entrance  of  this  hall  the  porter  left 
Marmaduke,  after  exchanging  a  whisper  with  a  gentleman 
whose  dress  eclipsed  the  Nevile's  in  splendor;  and  this  latter 
personage,  who,  though  of  high  birth,  did  not  disdain  to  perform 
the  office  of  chamberlain,  or  usher  to  the  king-like  Earl,  ad- 
vanced to  Marmaduke  with  a  smile,  and  said : 

"My  lord  expects  you,  sir,  and  has  appointed  this  time  to 
receive  you,  that  you  may  not  be  held  back  from  his  presence 
by  the  crowds  that  crave  audience  in  the  forenoon.  Please  to 
follow  me!"  This  said,  the  gentleman  slowly  preceded  the 
visitor,  now  and  then  stopping  to  exchange  a  friendly  word 
with  the  various  parties  he  passed  in  his  progress ;  for  the  ur- 
banity which  Warwick  possessed  himself,  his  policy  inculcated 
as  a  duty  on  all  who  served  him.  A  small  door  at  the  other 
extremity  of  the  hall  admitted  into  an  ante-room,  in  which  some 
half-score  pages,  the  sons  of  knights  and  barons,  were  gathered 
round  an  old  warrior,  placed  at  their  head  as  a  sort  of  tutor,  to 
instruct  them  in  all  knightly  accomplishments ;  and  beckoning 
forth  one  of  these  youths  from  the  ring,  the  Earl's  chamberlain 
said,  with  a  profound  reverence:  "Will  you  be  pleased,  my 
young  lord,  to  conduct  your  cousin,  master  Marmaduke  Nevile, 
to  the  Earl's  presence."  The  young  gentleman  eyed  Marma- 
duke with  a  supercilious  glance. 

"Marry!"  said  he  pertly,  "if  a  man  born  in  the  north  were 


90  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

to  feed  all  his  cousins,  he  would  soon  have  a  tail  as  long  as  my 
uncle,  the  stout  Earl's.  Come,  Sir  Cousin,  this  way." 

And  without  tarrying  even  to  give  Nevile  information  of  the 
name  and  quality  of  his  new-found  relation,  who  was  no  less 
than  Lord  Montagu's  son,  the  sole  male  heir  to  the  honors  of 
that  mighty  family,  though  now  learning  the  apprenticeship  of 
chivalry  amongst  his  uncle's  pages,  the  boy  passed  before  Mar- 
maduke  with  a  saunter,  that,  had  they  been  in  plain  Westmore- 
land, might  have  cost  him  a  cuff  from  the  stout  hand  of  the  in- 
dignant elder  cousin.  He  raised  the  tapestry  at  one  end  of  the 
room,  and  ascending  a  short  flight  of  broad  stairs,  knocked 
gently  on  the  panels  of  an  arched  door,  sunk  deep  in  the  walls. 

"Enter  !"  said  a  clear,  loud  voice,  and  the  next  moment 
Marmaduke  was  in  the  presence  of  the  King-maker. 

He  heard  his  guide  pronounce  his  name,  and  saw  him  smile 
maliciously  at  the  momentary  embarrassment  the  young  man 
displayed  as  the  boy  passed  by  Marmaduke,  and  vanished. 
The  Earl  of  Warwick  was  seated  near  a  door  that  opened  upon 
an  inner  court,  or  rather  garden,  which  gave  communication  to 
the  river.  The  chamber  was  painted  in  the  style  of  Henry  III., 
with  huge  figures  representing  the  battle  of  Hastings,  or  rather, 
for  there  were  many  separate  pieces,  the  conquest  of  Saxon 
England.  Over  each  head,  to  enlighten  the  ignorant,  the  artist 
had  taken  the  precaution  to  insert  a  label,  which  told  the  name 
and  the  subject.  The  ceiling  was  groined,  vaulted,  and  em- 
blazoned with  the  richest  gilding  and  colors.  The  chimney- 
piece  (a  modern  ornament)  rose  to  the  roof,  and  represented  in 
bold  reliefs,  gilt  and  decorated,  the  signing  of  Magna  Charta. 
The  floor  was  strewed  thick  with  dried  rushes,  and  odorous 
herbs;  the  furniture  was  scanty,  but  rich.  The  low-backed 
chairs,  of  which  there  were  but  four,  carved  in  ebony,  had 
cushions  of  velvet  with  fringes  of  massive  gold.  A  small  cup- 
board, or  beaufet,  covered  with  carpets  de  cuir  (carpets  of  gilt 
and  painted  leather),  of  great  price,  held  various  quaint  and 
curious  ornaments  of  plate  inwrought  with  precious  stones;  and 
beside  this — a  singular  contrast — on  a  plain  Gothic  table  lay  the 
helmet,  the  gauntlets,  and  the  battle-axe  of  the  master.  Warwick 
himself,  seated  before  a  large  cumbrous  desk,  was  writing — but 
slowly  and  with  pain — and  he  lifted  his  finger  as  the  Nevile  ap- 
proached, in  token  of  his  wish  to  conclude  a  task  probably 
little  congenial  to  his  tastes.  But  Marmaduke  was  grateful 
for  the  moments  afforded  him  to  recover  his  self-possession, 
and  to  examine  his  kinsman. 

The  Earl  was  in  the  lusty  vigor  of  his  age.     His  hair,  of  the 


THE    I- AST    OF    THE    BARONS.  £1 

deepest  black,  was  worn  short,  as  if  in  disdain  of  the  effeminate 
fashions  of  the  day,  and  fretted  bare  from  the  temples,  by  the 
constant  and  early  friction  of  his  helmet,  gave  to  a  forehead 
naturally  lofty  yet  more  majestic  appearance  of  expanse  and 
height.  His  complexion,  though  dark  and  sunburnt,  glowed 
with  rich  health.  The  beard  was  closely  shaven,  and  left  in  all 
its  remarkable  beauty  the  contour  of  the  oval  face  and  strong 
jaw — strong  as  if  clasped  in  iron.  The  features  were  marked 
and  aquiline,  as  was  common  to  those  of  Norman  blood.  The 
form  spare,  but  of  prodigious  width  and  depth  of  chest,  the 
more  apparent  from  the  fashion  of  the  short  surcoat  which  was 
thrown  back,  and  left  in  board  expanse  a  placard,  not  of  holi- 
day velvet  and  satins,  but  of  steel  polished  as  a  mirror,  and  in- 
laid with  gold.  And  now,  as  concluding  his  task,  the  Earl  rose 
and  motioned  Marmaduke  to  a  stool  by  his  side,  his  great  stat- 
ure, which,  from  the  length  of  his  limbs,  was  not  so  observable 
when  he  sate,  actually  startled  his  guest.  Tall  as  Marmaduke 
was  himself,  the  Earl  towered*  above  him,  with  his  high,  ma- 
jestic, smooth,  unwrinkled  forehead,  like  some  Paladin  of  the 
rhyme  of  poet  or  romancer;  and,  perhaps,  not  only  in  this  mas- 
culine advantage,  but  in  the  rare  and  harmonious  combination 
of  colossal  strength  with  graceful  lightness,  a  more  splen- 
did union  of  all  the  outward  qualities  we  are  inclined  to  give 
to  the  heroes  of  old,  never  dazzled  the  eye,  or  impresssed 
the  fancy.  But  even  this  effect  of  mere  person  was  subordi- 
nate to  that  which  this  eminent  nobleman  created,  upon  his 
inferiors,  at  least,  by  a  manner  so  void  of  all  arrogance,  yet  of 
all  condescension,  so  simple,  open,  cordial,  and  herolike  that 
Marmaduke  Nevile,  peculiarly  alive  to  external  impressions,  and 
subdued  and  fascinated  by  the  Earl's  first  word,  and  that  word 
was  "Welcome!"  dropped  on  his  knee  and  kissing  the  hand 
extended  to  him,  said:  "Noble  kinsman,  in  thy  service,  and 
for  thy  sake,  let  me  live  and  die!"  Had  the  young  man  been 
prepared  by  the  subtlest  master  of  court-craft  for  this  interview, 
so  important  to  his  fortunes,  he  could  not  have  advanced  a 
hundredth  part  so  far  with  the  great  Earl,  as  he  did  by  that 
sudden,  frank  burst  of  genuine  emotion ;  for  Warwick  was 
extremely  sensitive  to  the  admiration  he  excited — vain  or  proud 
of  it,  it  matters  not  which — grateful  as  a  child  for  love,  and 
inexorable  as  a  woman  for  slight  or  insult:  in  rude  ages,  one 
sex  has  often  the  qualities  of  the  other. 


02  THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

"Thou  hast  thy  father's  warm  heart,  and  hasty  thought, 
Marmaduke,"  said  Warwick,  raising  him,  "and  now  he  is  gone 
where,  we  trust,  brave  men  shrived  of  their  sins  look  down  upon 
us,  who  should  be  thy  friend  but  Richard  Nevile?  So — so — 
yes — let  me  look  at  thee.  Ha!  stout  Guy's  honest  face,  every 
line  of  it ;  but  to  the  girls,  perhaps,  comelier,  for  wanting  a  scar 
or  two.  Never  blush — thou  shalt  win  the  scars  yet.  So  thou 
hast  a  letter  from  thy  father?" 

"It  is  here,  noble  lord." 

"And  why,"  said  the  Earl,  cutting  the  silk  with  his  dagger — 
"why  hast  thou  so  long  hung  back  from  presenting  it?  But  I 
need  not  ask  thee.  These  uncivil  times  have  made  kith  and 
kin  doubt  worse  of  each  other  than  thy  delay  did  of  me.  Sir 
Guy's  mark,  sure  eno'!  Brave  old  man!  I  loved  him  the  bet- 
ter for  that,  like  me,  the  sword  was  more  meet  than  the  pen 
for  his  bold  hand."  Here  Warwick  scanned,  with  some  slow- 
ness, the  lines  dictated  by  the  dead  to  the  priest ;  and  when  he 
had  done,  he  laid  the  letter  respectfully  on  his  desk,  and  bow- 
ing his  head  over  it,  muttered  to  himself — it  might  be  an  Ave 
for  the  deceased.  "Well,"  he  said,  reseating  himself,  and 
again  motioning  Marmaduke  to  follow  his  example,  "thy  father 
was,  in  sooth,  to  blame  for  the  side  he  took  in  the  Wars. 
What  son  of  the  Norman  could  bow  knee  or  vale  plume  to 
that  shadow  of  a  king,  Henry  of  Windsor? — and  for  his  bloody 
wife,  she  knew  no  more  of  an  Englishman's  pith  and  pride  than 
I  know  of  the  rhymes  and  roundels  of  old  Rene,  her  father. 
Guy  Nevile — good  Guy — many  a  day  in  my  boyhood  did  he 
teach  me  how  to  bear  my  lance  at  the  crest,  and  direct 
my  sword  at  the  mail-joints.  He  was  cunning  at  fence — thy 
worshipful  father — but  I  was  ever  a  bad  scholar;  and  my 
dull  arm,  to  this  day,  hopes  more  from  its  strength  than  its 
craft." 

"I  have  heard  it  said,  noble  Earl,  that  the  stoutest  hand  can 
scarcely  lift  your  battle-axe." 

"Fables!  romaunt!"  answered  the  Earl,  smiling;  "there  it 
lies — go  and  lift  it." 

Marmaduke  went  to  the  table,  and,  though  with  some  diffi- 
culty, raised  and  swung  this  formidable  weapon. 

"By  my  halidame,  well  swung,  cousin  mine!  Its  use  depends 
not  on  the  strength,  but  the  practice.  Why  look  you  now, 
there  is  the  boy  Richard  of  Gloucester,  who  comes  not  up  to 
thy  shoulder,  and  by  dint  of  custom  each  day  can  wield  mace 
or  axe  with  as  much  ease  as  a  jester  doth  his  lath-sword.  Ah! 
trust  me,  Marmaduke,  the  York  House  is  a  princely  one ;  and 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  93 

if  we  must  have  a  king,  we  barons,  by  stout  St.  George !  let  no 
meaner  race  ever  furnish  our  lieges.  But  to  thyself,  Marma- 
duke — what  are  thy  views  and  thy  wishes?" 

"To  be  one  of  thy  following,  noble  Warwick." 

"I  thank  and  accept  thee,  young  Nevile;  but  thouhast  heard 
that  I  am  about  to  leave  England,  and  in  the  mean  time  thy 
youth  would  run  danger  without  a  guide."  The  Earl  paused 
a  moment,  and  resumed :  "My  brother  of  Montagu  showed  thee 
cold  countenance ;  but  a  word  from  me  will  win  thee  his  grace 
and  favor.  What  sayest  thou — wilt  thou  be  one  of  his  gentlemen? 
If  so,  I  will  tell  thee  the  qualities  a  man  must  have;  a  discreet 
tongue,  a  quick  eye,  the  last  fashion  in  hood  and  shoe-bobbins, 
a  perfect  seat  on  thy  horse,  a  light  touch  for  the  gittern,  a 
voice  for  a  love-song,  and — " 

"I  have  none  of  these,  save  the  horsemanship,  gracious  my 
lord;  and  if  thou  wilt  not  receive  me  thyself,  I  wilt  not  burden 
my  Lord  of  Montagu*  and  Northumberland." 

"Hot  and  quick!  No! — John  of  Montagu  would  not  suit 
thee,  nor  thou  him.  But  how  to  provide  for  thee  till  my  return, 
I  know  not." 

"Dare  I  not  hope,  then,  to  make  one  of  your  embassage, 
noble  Earl?" 

Warwick  bent  his  brows,  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Of  our  embassage !  Why,  thou  art  haughty,  indeed !  Nay, 
and  so  a  soldier's  son  and  a  Nevile  should  be!  I  blame  thee 
not ;  but  I  could  not  make  thee  one  of  my  train,  without  creat- 
ing a  hundred  enemies — to  me  (but  that's  nothing)  and  to  thee, 
which  were  much.  Knowest  thou  not  that  there  is  scarce  a 
gentleman  of  my  train  below  the  state  of  a  peer's  son,  and  that 
I  have  made,  by  refusals,  malcontents  eno'  as  it  is — yet,  hold! 
there  is  my  learned  brother  the  Archbishop  of  York.  Knowest 
thou  Latin  and  the  schools?" 

"  'Fore  Heaven,  my  lord,"  said  the  Nevile  bluntly,  "I  see 
already  I  had  best  go  back  to  green  Westmoreland,  for  I  am 
as  unfit  for  his  Grace  the  Archbishop,  as  I  am  for  my  Lord 
Montagu." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  Earl  dryly,  "since  thou  hast  not 
yet  station  enough  for  my  train,  nor  glosing  for  Northumber- 
land, nor  wit  and  lere  for  the  Archbishop,  I  suppose,  my  poor 
youth,  I  must  e'en  make  you  only  a  gentleman  about  the 
King!  It  is  not  a  post  so  sure  of  quick  rising  and  full  gipsires 
as  one  about  myself,  or  my  brethren,  but  it  will  be  less  envied, 
and  is  good  for  thy  first  essay.  How  goes  the  clock?  Oh! 
here  is  Nick  Alwyn  s  new  horologe.  He  tells  me  that  the 


94  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

English  will  soon  rival  the  Dutch  *  in  these  baubles.  The 
more  the  pity! — our  red-faced  yeomen,  alas,  are  fast  sinking 
into  lank-jawed  mechanics!  We  shall  find  the  King  in  his 
garden  within  the  next  half-hour.  Thou  shalt  attend  me." 

Marmaduke  expressed,  with  more  feeling  than  eloquence,  the 
thanks  he  owed  for  an  offer  that,  he  was  about  to  say,  ex- 
ceeded his  hopes,  but  he  had  already,  since  his  departure  from 
Westmoreland,  acquired  sufficient  wit  to  think  twice  of  his 
words.  And  so  eagerly,  at  that  time,  did  the  youth  of  the 
nobility  contend  for  the  honor  of  posts  about  the  person  of 
Warwick,  and  even  of  his  brothers,  and  so  strong  was  the 
belief  that  the  Earl's  power  to  make  or  to  mar  fortune  was 
all-paramount  in  England,  that  even  a  place  in  the  King's 
household  was  considered  an  inferior  appointment  to  that 
which  made  Warwick  the  immediate  patron  and  protector. 
This  was  more  specially  the  case  amongst  the  more  haughty 
and  ancient  gentry,  since  the  favor  shown  by  Edward  to  the 
relations  of  his  wife,  and  his  own  indifference  to  the  rank  and 
birth  of  his  associates.  Warwick  had  therefore  spoken  with 
truth  when  he  expressed  a  comparative  pity  for  the  youth, 
whom  he  could  not  better  provide  for  than  by  a  place  about 
the  Court  of  his  Sovereign ! 

The  Earl  then  drew  from  Marmaduke  some  account  of  his 
early  training,  his  dependence  on  his  brother,  his  adventures  at 
the  archery  ground,  his  misadventure  with  the  robbers,  and 
even  his  sojourn  with  Warner — though  Marmaduke  was  dis- 
erectly  silent  as  to  the  very  existence  of  Sibyll.  The  Earl,  in 
the  mean  while,  walked  to  and  fro  the  chamber,  with  a  light, 
careless  stride,  every  moment  pausing  to  laugh  at  the  frank  sim- 
plicity of  his  kinsman,  or  to  throw  in  some  shrewd  remark, 
which  he  cast  purposely  in  the  rough  Westmoreland  dialect ; 
for  no  man  ever  attains  to  the  popularity  that  rejoiced  or  ac- 
cursed the  Earl  of  Warwick,  without  a  tendency  to  broad  and 
familiar  humor,  without  a  certain  commonplace  of  character  in 
its  shallower  and  more  every-day  properties.  This  charm — 
always  great  in  the  great — Warwick  possessed  to  perfection ; 
and  in  him,  such  was  his  native  and  unaffected  majesty  of  bear- 
ing, and  such  the  splendor  that  surrounded  his  name,  it  never 
seemed  coarse  or  unfamiliar,  but  "everything  he  did  became 
his  best."  Marmaduke  had  just  brought  his  narrative  to  a 

*  Clockwork  appears  to  have  been  introduced  into  England  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III., 
when  three  Dutch  norologers  were  invited  over  from  Delft.  They  must  soon  have  passed 
into  common  use,  for  Chaucer  thus  familiarly  speaks  of  them  : 

"  Full  sickerer  was  his  crowing  in  his  loge 
Than  is  a  clock  or  any  abbey  orloge. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  95 

conclusion,  when,  after  a  slight  tap  at  the  door,  which  War- 
wick did  not  hear,  two  fair  young  forms  bounded  joyously  in, 
and,  not  seeing  the  stranger,  threw  themselves  upon  War- 
wick's breast  with  the  caressing  familiarity  of  infancy. 

"Ah,  father,"  said  the  elder  of  these  two  girls,  as  Warwick's 
hand  smoothed  her  hair  fondly,  "you  promised  you  would  take 
us  in  your  barge  to  see  the  sports  on  the  river,  and  now  it  will 
be  too  late." 

"Make  your  peace  with  your  young  cousins  here,"  said  the 
Earl,  turning  to  Marmaduke;  "you  will  cost  them  an  hour's 
joyaunce.  This  is  my  eldest  daughter,  Isabel ;  and  this  soft- 
eyed,  pale-cheeked  damozel — too  loyal  for  a  leaf  of  the  red 
rose — is  the  Lady  Anne." 

The  two  girls  had  started  from  their  father's  arms  at  the 
first  address  to  Marmaduke,  and  their  countenances  had  re- 
lapsed from  their  caressing  and  childlike  expression,  into  all 
the  stately  demureness  with  which  they  had  been  brought  up 
to  regard  a  stranger.  Howbeit,  this  reserve,  to  which  he  was 
accustomed,  awed  Marmaduke  less  than  the  alternate  gayety 
and  sadness  of  the  wilder  Sibyll,  and  he  addressed  them  with 
all  the  gallantry  to  the  exercise  of  which  he  had  been  reared ; 
concluding  his  compliments  with  a  declaration  that  he  would 
rather  forego  the  advantage  proffered  him  by  the  Earl's  favor 
with  the  King  than  foster  one  obnoxious  and  ungracious  mem- 
ory in  damozels  so  fair  and  honored. 

A  haughty  smile  flitted  for  a  moment  over  the  proud,  young 
face  of  Isabel  Nevile;  but  the  softer  Anne  blushed,  and  drew 
bashfully  behind  her  sister. 

As  yet  these  girls,  born  for  the  highest  and  fated  to  the  most 
wretched  fortunes,  were  in  all  the  bloom  of  earliest  youth ;  but 
the  difference  between  their  characters  might  be  already  ob- 
servable in  their  mien  and  countenance.  Isabel,  of  tall  and 
commanding  stature,  had  some  semblance  to  her  father,  in  her 
aquiline  features,  rich,  dark  hair,  and  the  lustrous  brilliancy  of 
her  eyes;  while  Anne,  less  striking,  yet  not  less  lovely,  of 
smaller  size  and  slighter  proportions,  bore  in  her  pale,  clear 
face,  her  dove-like  eyes,  and  her  gentle  brow,  an  expression  of 
yielding  meekness  not  unmixed  with  melancholy,  which,  con- 
joined with  an  exquisite  symmetry  of  features,  could  not  fail  of 
exciting  interest  where  her  sister  commanded  admiration. 
Not  a  word,  however,  from  either  did  Marmaduke  abstract  in 
return  for  his  courtesies,  nor  did  either  he  or  the  Earl  seem  to 
expect  it ;  for  the  latter,  seating  himself  and  drawing  Anne  on 
his  knee,  while  Isabella  walked  with  stately  grace  towards  the 


96  THK    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

table  that  bore  her  father's  warlike  accoutrements,  and  played, 
as  it  were,  unconsciously  with  the  black  plume  on  his  black 
burgonot,  said  to  Nevile: 

"Well,  thou  hast  seen  enough  of  the  Lancastrian  raptriis  to 
make  thee  true  to  the  Yorkists.  I  would  I  could  say  as  much 
for  the  King  himself,  who  is  already  crowding  the  court  with 
that  venomous  faction,  in  honor  of  Dame  Elizabeth  Gray — 
born  Mistress  Woodville,  and  now  Queen  of  England.  Ha! 
my  proud  Isabel,  thou  wouldst  have  better  filled  the  throne 
that  thy  father  built!" 

And  at  these  words  a  proud  flash  broke  from  the  Earl's  dark 
eyes,  betraying  even  to  Marmaduke  the  secret  of  perhaps  his 
earliest  alienation  from  Edward  IV. 

Isabella  pouted  her  rich  lip,  but  said  nothing.  "As  for 
thee,  Anne,"  continued  the  Earl,  "it  is  a  pity  that  monks  can- 
not marry — thou  wouldst  have  suited  some  sober  priest  better 
than  a  mailed  knight.  'Fore  George,  I  would  not  ask  thee  to 
buckle  my  baldrick  when  the  war- steeds  were  snorting,  but  I 
would  trust  Isabel  with  the  links  of  my  hauberk." 

"Nay,  father,"  said  the  low,  timid  voice  of  Anne,  "if  thou 
wert  going  to  danger,  I  could  be  brave  in  all  that  could  guard 
thee!" 

"Why,  that's  my  girl — kiss  me!  Thou  hast  a  look  of  thy 
mother  now — so  thou  hast !  And  I  will  not  chide  thee  the 
next  time  I  hear  thee  muttering  soft  treason,  in  pity  of  Henry 
of  Windsor." 

"Is  he  not  to  be  pitied?  Crown,  wife,  son,  and  Earl  War- 
wick's stout  arm — lost — lost!" 

"No!"  said  Isabel  suddenly;  "no,  sweet  sister  Anne,  and 
fie  on  thee  for  the  words!  He  lost  all,  because  he  had  neither 
the  hand  of  a  knight  nor  the  heart  of  a  man !  For  the  rest — 
Margaret  of  Anjou,  or  her  butchers,  beheaded  our  father's 
father!" 

"And  may  God  and  St.  George  forget  me,  when  I  forget 
those  gray  and  gory  hairs!"  exclaimed  the  Earl;  and,  putting 
away  the  Lady  Anne  somewhat  roughly,  he  made  a  stride 
across  the  room,  and  stood  by  his  hearth.  "And  yet  Edward, 
the  son  of  Richard  of  York,  who  fell  by  my  father's  side — he 
forgets — he  forgives!  And  the  minions  of  Rivers  the  Lancas- 
trian tread  the  heels  of  Richard  of  Warwick!" 

At  this  unexpected  turn  in  the  conversation,  peculiarly  un- 
welcome, as  it  may  be  supposed,  to  the  son  of  one  who  had 
fought  on  the  Lancastrian  side,  in  the  very  battle  referred  to, 
Marmaduke  felt  somewhat  uneasy,  and,  turning  to  the  Lady 


THE    LAST    OF   THE    BARONS,  97 

Anne,  he  said,  with  the  gravity  of  wounded  pride:  "I  owe 
more  to  my  lord,  your  father,  than  I  even  wist  of — how  much 
he  must  have  overlooked  to — " 

"Not  so!"  interrupted  Warwick,  who  overheard  him — "not 
so;  thou  wrongest  me!  Thy  father  was  shocked  at  those 
butcheries ;  thy  father  recoiled  from  that  accursed  standard ; 
thy  father  was  of  a  stock  ancient  and  noble  as  my  own !  But, 
these  Woodvilles! — tush!  my  passion  overmasters  me.  We 
will  go  to  the  King — it  is  time." 

Warwick  here  rung  the  hand-bell  on  his  table,  and  on  the 
entrance  of  his  attendant  gentleman,  bade  him  see  that  the 
barge  was  in  readiness ;  then,  beckoning  to  his  kinsman,  and 
with  a  nod  to  his  daughters,  he  caught  up  his  plumed  cap,  and 
passed  at  once  into  the  garden. 

"Anne,"  said  Isabel,  when  the  two  girls  were  alone,  "thou 
hast  vexed  my  father,  and  what  marvel?  If  the  Lancastrians 
can  be  pitied,  the  Earl  of  Warwick  must  be  condemned!" 

' ' Unkind ! ' '  said  Anne,  shedding  tears ;  "I  can  pity  woe  and 
mischance  without  blaming  those  whose  hard  duty  it  might  be 
to  achieve  them." 

"In  good  sooth,  cannot  I!  Thou  wouldst  pity  and  pardon 
till  thou  left'st  no  distinction  between  foeman  and  friend,  like 
and  loathing.  Be  it  mine,  like  my  great  father,  to  love  and  to 
hate!" 

"Yet  why  art  thou  so  attached  to  the  White  Rose?"  said 
Anne,  stung,  if  not  to  malice,  at  least  to  archness.  "Thou 
knowest  my  father's  nearest  wish  was  that  his  eldest  daughter 
might  be  betrothed  to  King  Edward.  Dost  thou  not  pay  good 
for  evil  when  thou  seest  no  excellence  out  of  the  House  of 
York?" 

"Saucy  Anne, "  answered  Isabel,  with  a  half-smile,  "I  am 
not  raught  by  thy  shafts,  for  I  was  a  child  for  the  nurses  when 
King  Edward  sought  a  wife  for  his  love.  But  were  I  chafed — 
as  I  may  be  vain  enough  to  know  myself — whom  should  I 
blame?  Not  the  King,  but  the  Lancastrian  who  witched 
him!" 

She  paused  a  moment,  and,  looking  away,  added  in  a  low 
tone:  "Didst  thou  hear,  Sister  Anne,  if  the  Duke  of  Clarence 
visited  my  father  the  forenoon?" 

"Ah!   Isabel — Isabel!" 

"Ah!  Sister  Anne,  Sister  Anne!  Wilt  thou  know  all  my 
secrets  ere  I  know  them  myself?"  and  Isabel,  with  something 
of  her  father's  playfulness,  put  her  hand  to  Anne's  laughing 
lips, 


98  THF.    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

Meanwhile  Warwick,  after  walking  musingly  a  few  moments 
along  the  garden,  which  was  formed  by  plots  of  sward,  bor- 
dered with  fruit  trees,  and  white  rose  trees  not  yet  in  blossom, 
turned  to  his  silent  kinsman,  and  said:  "Forgive  me,  cousin 
mine,  my  mannerless  burst  against  thy  brave  father's  faction ; 
but  when  thou  hast  been  a  short  while  at  court,  thou  wilt  see 
where  the  sore  is.  Certes,  I  love  this  King!"  Here  his  dark 
face  lighted  up.  "Love  him  as  a  king,  ay,  and  as  a  son! 
And  who  would  not  love  him;  brave  as  his  sword,  gallant,  and 
winning,  and  gracious  as  the  noonday  in  summer?  Besides,  I 
placed  him  on  his  throne — I  honor  myself  in  him!" 

The  Earl's  stature  dilated  as  he  spoke  the  last  sentence,  and 
his  hand  rested  on  his  dagger  hilt.  He  resumed,  with  the  same 
daring  and  incautious  candor  that  stamped  his  dauntless 
soldier-like  nature,  "God  hath  given  me  no  son.  Isabel  of 
Warwick  had  been  a  mate  for  William  the  Norman;  and  my 
grandson,  if  heir  to  his  grandsire's  soul,  should  have  ruled 
from  the  throne  of  England  over  the  realms  of  Charlemagne! 
But  it  hath  pleased  Him,  whom  the  Christian  knight  alone 
bows  to  without  shame,  to  order  otherwise.  So  be  it.  I  for- 
got my  just  pretensions,  forgot  my  blood,  and  counselled  the 
King  to  strengthen  his  throne  with  the  alliance  of  Louis  XI. 
He  rejected  the  Princess  Bona  of  Savoy,  to  marry  widow  Eliza- 
beth Gray — I  sorrowed  for  his  sake,  and  forgave  the  slight  to 
my  counsels.  At  his  prayer  I  followed  the  train  of  his  queen, 
and  hushed  the  proud  hearts  of  our  barons  to  obeisance.  But 
since  then,  this  Dame  Woodville,  whom  I  queened,  if  her  hus- 
band mated,  must  dispute  this  roiaulme  with  mine  and  me — a 
Nevile,  nowadays,  must  vail  his  plume  to  a  Woodville!  And 
not  the  great  barons  whom  it  will  suit  Edward's  policy  to  win 
from  the  Lancastrians — not  the  Exeters  and  the  Somersets — 
but  the  craven  varlets,  and  lackeys,  and  dross  of  the  camp — 
false  alike  to  Henry  and  to  Edward — are  to  be  fondled  into 
lordships  and  dandled  into  power.  Young  man,  I  am  speak- 
ing hotly — Richard  Nevile  never  lies  nor  conceals.  But  I  am 
speaking  to  a  kinsman,  am  I  not?  Thou  hearest — thou  wilt 
not  repeat?" 

"Sooner  would  I  pluck  forth  my  tongue  by  the  roots." 

"Enough!"  returned  the  Earl,  with  a  pleased  smile.  "When 
I  come  from  France,  I  will  speak  more  to  thee.  Meanwhile  be 
courteous  to  all  men — servile  to  none.  Now  to  the  King." 

So  speaking,  he  shook  back  his  surcoat,  drew  his  cap  over 
his  brow,  and  passed  to  the  broad  stairs,  at  the  foot  of  which 
fifty  rowers,  with  their  badges  on  their  shoulders,  waited  in  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  99 

huge  turge,  gilt  richly  at  prow  and  stern,  and  with  an  awning 
of  silk,  wrought  with  the  Earl's  arms  and  cognizance.  As  they 
pushed  off,  six  musicians,  placed  towards  the  helm,  began  a 
slow  and  half-Eastern  march,  which,  doubtless,  some  crusader 
of  the  Temple  had  brought  from  the  cymbals  and  trumps  Oi" 
Palestine. 

CHAPTER  II. 

KING    EDWARD    THE    FOURTH. 

THE  Tower  of  London,  more  consecrated  to  associations  of 
gloom  and  blood  than  those  of  gayety  and  splendor,  was,  never- 
theless, during  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.,  the  seat  of  a  gallant 
and  gorgeous  court.  That  king,  from  the  first  to  the  last  so  dear 
to  the  people  of  London,  made  it  his  principal  residence  when 
in  his  metropolis;  and  its  ancient  halls  and  towers  were  then 
the  scene  of  many  a  brawl  and  galliard.  As  Warwick's  barge 
now  approached  its  huge  walls,  rising  from  the  river,  there  was 
much  that  might  either  animate  or  awe,  according  to  the  mood  of 
the  spectator.  The  King's  barge,  with  many  lesser  craft,  re- 
served for  the  use  of  the  courtiers,  gay  with  awnings  and 
streamers,  and  painting  and  gilding,  lay  below  the  wharfs,  not 
far  from  the  gate  of  St.  Thomas,  now  called  the  Traitor's 
Gate.  On  the  walk  raised  above  the  battlemented  wall  of  the 
inner  ward,  not  only  paced  the  sentries,  but  there,  dames  and 
knights  were  inhaling  the  noonday  breezes,  and  the  gleam  of 
their  rich  dresses  of  cloth  of  gold  glanced  upon  the  eye  at  fre- 
quent intervals  from  tower  to  tower.  Over  the  vast  round 
iurret,  behind  the  Traitor's  Gate,  now  called  "The  Bloody 
Tower,"  floated  cheerily  in  the  light  wind  the  royal  banner. 
Near  the  Lion's  Tower,  two  or  three  of  the  keepers  of  the 
menagerie,  in  the  King's  livery,  were  leading  forth,  by  a  strong 
chain,  the  huge  white  bear  that  made  one  of  the  boasts  of  the 
collection,  and  was  an  especial  favorite  with  the  King  and  his 
brother  Richard.  The  sheriffs  of  London  were  bound  to  find 
this  grisly  minion  his  chain  and  his  cord,  when  he  deigned  to 
amuse  himself  with  bathing  or  "fishing"  in  the  river;  and  sev- 
eral boats,  filled  with  gape-mouthed  passengers,  lay  near  the 
wharf,  to  witness  the  diversions  of  Bruin.  These  folk  set  up 
a  loud  shout  of :  "A  Warwick! — a  Warwick!"  "The  stout 
Earl,  and  God  bless  him ! "  as  the  gorgeous  barge  shot  towards 
the  fortress.  The  Earl  acknowledged  their  greeting  by  vailing 
his  plumed  cap,  and  passing  the  keepers  with  a  merry  allusion 
to  their  care  of  his  own  badge,  and  a  friendly  compliment  to 
the  grunting  bear,  he  stepped  ashore,  followed  by  his  kinsman. 


100  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

Now,  however,  he  paused  a  moment,  and  a  more  thoughtful 
shade  passed  over  his  countenance,  as,  glancing  his  eye  care- 
lessly aloft  towards  the  standard  of  King  Edward,  he  caught 
sight  of  the  casement,  in  the  neighboring  tower,  of  the  very 
room  in  which  the  sovereign  of  his  youth,  Henry  the  Sixth, 
was  a  prisoner,  almost  within  hearing  of  the  revels  of  his  suc- 
cessor; then,  with  a  quick  stride,  he  hurried  on  through  the 
vast  court,  and,  passing  the  White  Tower,  gained  the  royal 
lodge.  Here,  in  the  great  hall,  he  left  his  companion,  amidst 
a  group  of  squires  and  gentlemen,  to  whom  he  formally  pre- 
sented the  Nevile  as  his  friend  and  kinsman,  and  was  ushered 
by  the  deputy  chamberlain  (with  an  apology  for  the  absence  of 
his  chief,  the  Lord  Hastings,  who  had  gone  abroad  to  fly  his 
falcon),  into  the  small  garden,  where  Edward  was  idling  away 
the  interval  between  the  noon  and  evening  meals — repasts  to 
which  already  the  young  King  inclined  with  that  intemperate 
zest  and  ardor  which  he  carried  into  all  his  pleasures,  and 
which  finally  destroyed  the  handsomest  person  and  embruted 
one  of  the  most  vigorous  intellects  of  the  age. 

The  garden,  if  bare  of  flowers,  supplied  their  place  by  the 
various  and  brilliant-colored  garbs  of  the  living  beauties  assem- 
bled on  its  straight  walks  and  smooth  sward.  Under  one  of 
those  graceful  cloisters  which  were  the  taste  of  the  day,  and  had 
been  recently  built  and  gayly  decorated,  the  Earl  was  stopped  in 
his  path  by  a  group  of  ladies  playing  at  closheys  (ninepins)  of 
ivory ;  *  and  one  of  these  fair  dames,  who  excelled  the  rest  in  her 
skill,  had  just  bowled  down  the  central  or  crowned  pin — the  king 
of  the  closheys.  This  lady,  no  less  a  person  than  Elizabeth,  the 
Queen  of  England,  was  then  in  her  thirty-sixth  year — ten  years 
older  than  her  lord — but  the  peculiar  fairness  and  delicacy  of 
her  complexion  still  preserved  to  her  beauty  the  aspect  and 
bloom  of  youth.  From  a  lofty  head-gear,  embroidered  with 
fleur-de-lis,  round  which  wreathed  a  light  diadem  of  pearls, 
her  hair  of  the  pale  yellow  considered  then  the  perfection  of 
beauty,  flowed  so  straight  and  so  shining  down  her  shoulders, 
almost  to  the  knees,  that  it  seemed  like  a  mantle  of  gold.  The 
baudekin  stripes  (blue  and  gold)  of  her  tunic,  attested  her  roy- 
alty. The  blue  court-pie  of  satin  was  bordered  with  ermine, 
and  the  sleeves,  fitting  close  to  an  arm  of  exquisite  contour, 
shone  with  seed-pearls.  Her  features  were  straight  and  regu- 
lar, yet  would  have  been  inspired,  but  for  an  expression  rather 
of  cunning  than  intellect ;  and  the  high  arch  of  the  eyebrows, 

*  Narrative  of  Louis  of  Bruges,,  Lord  Grauthuse.     Edited  by  Sir  F.  Madden.    Arch- 
1835. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  IOI 

with  a  slight  curve  downward  of  a  mouth  otherwise  beautiful, 
did  not  improve  the  expression,  by  an  addition  of  something 
supercilious  and  contemptuous,  rather  than  haughty  or  ma- 
jestic. 

"My  lord  of  Warwick,"  said  Elizabeth,  pointing  to  the 
fallen  closhey,  "what  would  my  enemies  say  if  they  heard  I 
had  toppled  down  the  king?" 

"They  would  content  themselves  with  asking  which  of  your 
Grace's  brothers  you  would  .place  in  his  stead,"  answered  the 
hardy  Earl,  unable  to  restrain  his  sarcasm. 

The  Queen  blushed,  and  glanced  round  her  ladies  with  an 
eye  which  never  looked  direct  or  straight  upon  its  object,  but 
wandered  sidelong  with  a  furtive  and  stealthy  expression,  that 
did  much  to  obtain  for  her  the  popular  character  of  falseness 
and  self-seeking.  Her  displeasure  was  yet  more  increased  by 
observing  the  ill-concealed  smile  which  the  taunt  had  called 
forth. 

"Nay,  my  lord,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "we  value  the 
peace  of  our  roiaulme  too  much  for  so  high  an  ambition. 
Were  we  to  make  a  brother  even  the  prince  of  the  closheys,  we 
should  disappoint  the  hopes  of  a  Nevile." 

The  Earl  disdained  pursuing  the  war  of  words,  and  answer- 
ing coldly,  "The  Neviles  are  more  famous  for  making  ingrates 
than  asking  favors.  I  leave  your  Highness  to  the  closheys," 
turned  away  and  strode  towards  the  King,  who  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  garden  was  reclining  on  a  bench  beside  a  lady,  in 
whose  ear,  to  judge  by  her  downcast  and  blushing  cheek,  he  was 
breathing  no  unwelcome  whispers. 

"Mort-Dieu!  "  muttered  the  Earl,  who  was  singularly  ex- 
empt, himself,  from  the  amorous  follies  of  the  day,  and  eyed 
them  with  so  much  contempt  that  it  often  obscured  his  natural 
downright  penetration  into  character,  and  never  more  than 
when  it  led  him  afterwards  to  underrate  the  talents  of  Edward 
IV. — "Mort-Dieu!  if,  an  hour  before  the  battle  of  Touton, 
some  wizard  had  shown  me,  in  his  glass,  this  glimpse  of  the 
gardens  of  the  Tower,  that  giglet  for  a  queen,  and  that  squire 
of  dames  for  a  king,  I  had  not  slain  my  black  destrier  (poor 
Malech!)  that  I  might  conquer  or  die  for  Edward  Earl  of 
March!" 

"But  see!"  said  the  lady,  looking  up  from  the  enamoured 
and  conquering  eyes  of  the  king;  "art  thou  not  ashamed,  my 
lord? — the  grim  Earl  comes  to  chide  thee  for  thy  faithless- 
ness to  thy  queen,  whom  he  loves  so  well." 

"Pasque-Dieu !    as   my   cousin    Louis  of  France    says   or 


102  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

swears,"  answered  the  King,  with  an  evident  petulance  in  his 
altered  voice,  "I  would  that  Warwick  could  be  only  worn  with 
one's  armor!  I  would  as  lief  try  to  kiss  through  my  visor  as 
hear  him  talk  of  glory  and  Touton,  and  King  John  and  poor 
Edward  II.,  because  I  am  not  always  in  mail.  Go!  leave  us, 
sweet  bonnibel! — we  must  brave  the  bear  alone!" 

The  lady  inclined  her  head,  drew  her  hood  round  her  face, 
and  striking  into  the  contrary  path  from  that  in  which  Warwick 
was  slowly  striding,  gained  the  group  round  the  Queen,  whose 
apparent  freedom  from  jealousy,  the  consequence  of  cold  affec- 
tions and  prudent  calculation,  made  one  principal  cause  of  the 
empire  she  held  over  the  powerful  mind,  but  the  indolent 
temper,  of  the  gay  and  facile  Edward. 

The  King  rose  as  Warwick  now  approached  him;  and  the 
appearance  of  these  two  eminent  persons  was  in  singular  con- 
trast. Warwick,  though  richly  and  even  gorgeously  attired — 
nay,  with  all  the  care  which  in  that  age  was  considered  the  im- 
perative duty  a  man  of  station  and  birth  owed  to  himself,  held 
in  lofty  disdain  whatever  vagary  of  custom  tended  to  cripple 
the  movements  or  womanize  the  man.  No  loose  flowing  robes ; 
no  shoon  half  a  yard  long;  no  flaunting  tawdiness  of  fringe  and 
aiglet,  characterized  the  appearance  of  the  baron,  who,  even 
in  peace,  gave  his  dress  a  half-martial  fashion. 

But  Edward,  who  in  common  with  all  the  princes  of  the 
House  of  York  carried  dress  to  a  passion,  had  not  only  re- 
introduced  many  of  the  most  effeminate  modes  in  vogue  under 
William  the  Red  King,  but  added  to  them  whatever  could  tend 
to  impart  an  almost  Oriental  character  to  the  old  Norman  garb. 
His  gown  (a  womanly  garment  which  had  greatly  superseded, 
with  men  of  the  highest  rank,  not  only  the  mantle  but  the  sur- 
coat)  flowed  to  his  heels,  trimmed  with  ermine,  and  broidered 
with  large  flowers  of  crimson  wrought  upon  cloth  of  gold. 
Over  this  he  wore  a  tippet  of  ermine,  and  a  collar  or  necklace 
of  uncut  jewels  set  in  filigree  gold ;  the  nether  limbs  were,  it  is 
true,  clad  in  the  more  manly  fashion  of  tight-fitting  hosen,  but 
the  folds  of  the  gown,  as  the  day  was  somewhat  fresh,  were 
drawn  around  so  as  to  conceal  the  only  part  of  the  dress  which 
really  betokened  the  male  sex.  To  add  to  this  unwarlike  attire, 
Edward's  locks,  of  a  rich  golden  color,  and  perfuming  the  whole 
air  with  odors,  flowed,  not  in  curls,  but  straight  to  his  shoulders, 
and  the  cheek  of  the  fairest  lady  in  his  court  might  have  seemed 
less  fair  beside  the  dazzling  clearness  of  a  complexion  at  once 
radiant  with  health  and  delicate  with  youth.  Yet,  in  spite  of 
all  this  effeminacy,  the  appearance  of  Edward  IV.  was  not 


THE   LAST   OF   THE    BARONS.  103 

effeminate.  From  this  it  was  preserved,  not  only  by  a  stature 
little  less  commanding  than  that  of  Warwick  himself,  and  of 
great  strength  and  breadth  of  shoulder,  but  also  by  features 
beautiful  indeed,  but  pre-eminently  masculine — large  and  bold 
in  their  outline,  and  evincing  by  their  expression  all  the  gallantry 
and  daring  characteristic  of  the  hottest  soldier,  next  to  War- 
wick, and,  without  any  exception,  the  ablest  captain,  of  the  age. 

"And  welcome — a  merry  welcome,  dear  Warwick,  and  cousin 
mine,"  said  Edward,  as  Warwick  slightly  bent  his  proud  knee 
to  his  King;  "your  brother,  Lord  Montagu,  has  but  left  us. 
Would  that  our  court  had  the  same  joyaunce  for  you  as  for  him." 

"Dear  and  honored  my  liege,"  answered  Warwick,  his  brow 
smoothing  at  once,  for  his  affectionate  though  hasty  and  irrita- 
ble nature  was  rarely  proof  against  the  kind  voice  and  winning 
smile  of  his  young  sovereign,  "could  I  ever  serve  you  at  the 
court  as  I  can  with  the  people,  you  would  not  complain  that 
John  of  Montagu  was  a  better  courtier  than  Richard  of  War- 
wick. But  each  to  his  calling.  I  depart  to-morrow  for  Calais, 
and  thence  to  King  Louis.  And,  surely,  never  envoy  nor  dele- 
gate had  better  chance  to  be  welcome  than  one  empowered  to 
treat  of  an  alliance  that  will  bestow  on  a  prince,  deserving,  I 
trust,  his  fortunes,  the  sister  of  the  bravest  sovereign  in  Christian 
Europe." 

"Now,  out  on  thy  flattery,  my  cousin:  though  I  must  needs 
own  I  provoked  it  by  my  complaint  of  thy  courtiership.  But 
thou  hast  learned  only  half  thy  business,  good  Warwick ;  and  it 
is  well  Margaret  did  not  hear  thee.  Is  not  the  Prince  of  France 
more  to  be  envied  for  winning  a  fair  lady  than  having  a  fortu- 
nate soldier  for  his  brother-in-law?" 

"My  liege,"  replied  Warwick,  smiling,  "thou  knowest  I  am 
a  poor  judge  of  a  lady's  fair  cheek,  though  indifferently  well 
skilled  as  to  the  valor  of  a  warrior's  stout  arm.  Algates,  the 
Lady  Margaret  is  indeed  worthy  in  her  excellent  beauties  to 
become  the  mother  of  brave  men?" 

"And  that  is  all  we  can  wring  from  thy  stern  lip,  man  of 
iron.  Well,  that  must  content  us.  But  to  more  serious  mat- 
ters." And  the  King,  leaning  his  hand  on  the  Earl's  arm,  and 
walking  with  him  slowly  to  and  fro  the  terrace,  continued : 
"Knowest  thou  not,  Warwick,  that  this  French  alliance,  to 
which  thou  hast  induced  us,  displeases  sorely  our  good  traders 
of  London?" 

"Mort-Dieu  !  "  returned  Warwick  bluntly ;  "and  what  busi- 
ness have  the  flat-caps  with  the  marriage  of  a  king's  sister?  Is  it 
for  them  to  breathe  garlick  on  the  alliances  of  Bourbons  and 


104  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

Plantagenets?  Faugh !  You  have  spoiled  them,  good  my  lord 
King — you  have  spoiled  them  by  your  condescensions.  Henry 
IV.  staled  not  his  majesty  to  consultations  with  the  mayor  of  his 
city.  Henry  V.  gave  the  knighthood  of  the  Bath  to  the  heroes 
of  Agincourt,  not  to  the  venders  of  cloth  and  spices." 

"Ah,  my  poor  Knights  of  the  Bath!"  said  Edward,  good 
humoredly,  "wilt  thou  never  let  that  sore  scar  quietly  over? 
Ownest  thou  not  that  the  men  had  their  merits?" 

"What  the  merits  were,  I  weet  not,"  answered  the  Earl; 
"unless,  peradventure,  their  wives  were  comely  and  young!" 

"Thou  wrongest  me,  Warwick,"  said  the  King  carelessly; 
"Dame  Cook  was  awry,  Dame  Philips  a  grandmother,  Dame 
Jocelyn  had  lost  her  front  teeth,  and  Dame  Waer  saw  seven 
ways  at  once!  But  thou  forgettest,  man,  the  occasion  of  those 
honors — the  eve  before  Elizabeth  was  crowned — and  it  was 
policy  to  make  the  city  of  London  have  a  share  in  her  honors. 
As  to  the  rest,"  pursued  the  King  earnestly  and  with  dignity, 
"I  and  my  house  have  owed  much  to  London.  When  the 
Peers  of  England,  save  thee  and  thy  friends,  stood  aloof  from 
my  cause,  London  was  ever  loyal  and  true.  Thou  seest  not, 
my  poor  Warwick,  that  these  burgesses  are  growing  up  into 
power  by  the  decline  of  the  orders  above  them.  And  if  the 
sword  is  the  monarch's  appeal  for  his  right,  he  must  look  to 
contented  and  honored  industry  for  his  buckler  in  peace.  This 
is  policy — policy,  Warwick;  and  Louis  XL  will  tell  thee  the 
same  truths,  harsh  though  they  grate  in  a  warrior's  ear." 

The  Earl  bowed  his  haughty  head,  and  answered  shortly, 
but  with  a  touching  grace:  "Be  it  ever  thine,  noble  King,  to 
rule  as  it  likes  thee;  and  mine  to  defend  with  my  blood  even 
what  I  approve  not  with  my  brain.  But  if  thou  doubtest  the 
wisdom  of  this  alliance,  it  is  not  too  late  yet.  Let  me  dismiss 
my  following,  and  cross  not  the  seas.  Unless  thy  heart  is  with 
the  marriage,  the  ties  I  would  form  are  threads  and  cobwebs." 

"Nay,"  returned  Edward  irresolutely;  "in  these  great  state 
viatters,  thy  wit  is  elder  than  mine;  but  men  do  say  the  Count 
flf  Charolois  is  a  mighty  lord,  and  the  alliance  with  Burgundy 
will  be  more  profitable  to  staple  and  mart." 

"Then,  in  God's  name,  so  concldue  it!"  said  the  Earl  hasti- 
ly, but  with  so  dark  a  fire  in  his  eyes,  that  Edward,  who  was 
observing  him,  changed  countenance;  "only  ask  me  not,  my 
liege,  to  advance  such  a  marriage.  The  Count  of  Charolois 
knows  me  as  his  foe — shame  were  mine  did  I  shun  to  say  where 
I  love,  where  I  hate.  That  proud  dullard  once  slighted  me 
when  we  met  at  his  father's  court,  and  the  wish  next  to  my 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  10$ 

heart,  is  to  pay  back  my  affront  with  my  battle-axe.  Give  thy 
sister  to  the  heir  of  Burgundy,  and  forgive  me  if  I  depart  to 
my  Castle  of  Middleham." 

Edward,  stung  by  the  sharpness  of  this  reply,  was  about  to 
answer  as  became  his  majesty  of  king,  when  Warwick  more 
deliberately  resumed:  "Yet  think  well,  Henry  of  Windsor  is 
thy  prisoner,  but  his  cause  lives  in  Margaret  and  his  son. 
There  is  but  one  power  in  Europe  that  can  threaten  thee  with 
aid  to  the  Lancastrians,  that  power  is  France.  Make  Louis  thy 
friend  and  ally,  and  thou  givest  peace  to  thy  life  and  thy  lineage; 
make  Louis  thy  foe,  and  count  on  plots,  and  stratagems,  and  trea- 
son— uneasy  days  and  sleepless  nights.  Already  thou  hast  lost 
one  occasion  to  secure  that  wiliest  and  most  restless  of  princes, 
in  rejecting  the  hand  of  the  Princess  Bona.  Happily,  this  loss 
now  can  be  retrieved.  But  alliance  with  Burgundy  is  war  with 
France — war  more  deadly  because  Louis  is  a  man  who  declares 
it  not — a  war  carried  on  by  intrigue  and  bribe,  by  spies  and 
minions,  till  some  disaffection  ripens  the  hour  when  young 
Edward  of  Lancaster  shall  land  on  thy  coasts,  with  the  Ori- 
flamme  and  the  Red  Rose — with  French  soldiers  and  English 
malcontents.  Wouldst  thou  look  to  Burgundy  for  help?  Bur- 
gundy will  have  enough  to  guard  its  own  frontiers  from  the  gripe 
of  Louis  the  Sleepless.  Edward,  my  king,  my  pupil  in  arms — 
Edward,  my  loved,  my  honored  liege,  forgive  Richard  Nevile 
his  bluntness,  and  let  not  his  faults  stand  in  bar  of  his  counsels. " 

"You  are  right,  as  you  are  ever — safeguard  of  England,  and 
pillar  of  my  state,"  said  the  King  frankly,  and  pressing  the  arm 
he  still  held.  "Go  to  France  and  settle  all  as  thou  wilt." 

Warwick  bent  low  and  kissed  the  hand  of  his  sovereign. 
"And,"  said  he,  with  a  slight,  but  a  sad  smile,  "when  I  am 
gone,  my  liege  will  not  repent,  will  not  misthink  me,  will  not 
listen  to  my  foes,  nor  suffer  merchant  and  mayor  to  sigh  him 
back  to  the  mechanics  of  Flanders?' ' 

"Warwick,  thou  deemest  ill  of  thy  King's  kingliness." 

"Not  of  thy  kingliness,  but  that  same  gracious  quality  of 
yielding  to  counsel  which  bows  this  proud  nature  to  submis- 
sion— often  makes  me  fear  for  thy  firmness,  when  thy  will  is 
won  through  thy  heart.  And  now,  good  my  liege,  forgive  me 
one  sentence  more.  Heaven  forefend  that  I  should  stand  in 
the  way  of  thy  princely  favors.  A  king's  countenance  is  a  sun 
that  should  shine  on  all.  But  bethink  thee  well,  the  barons  of 
England  are  a  stubborn  and  haughty  race ;  chafe  not  thy  most 
puissant  peers  by  too  cold  a  neglect  of  their  past  services,  and 
too  lavish  a  largess  to  new  men," 


IO6  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"Thou  aimest  at  Elizabeth's  kin,"  interrupted  Edward, 
withdrawing  his  hand  from  his  minister's  arm,  "and  I  tell  thee, 
once  for  all  times,  that  I  would  rather  sink  again  to  mine  Earldom 
of  March,  with  a  subject's  right  to  honor  where  he  loves,  than 
wear  crown  and  wield  sceptre  without  a  king's  unquestioned 
prerogative  to  ennoble  the  line  and  blood  of  one  he  has  deemed 
worthy  of  his  throne.  As  for  the  barons,  with  whose  wrath 
thou  threatenest  me,  I  banish  them  not — if  they  go  in  gloom 
from  my  court,  why  let  them  chafe  themselves  sleek  again!" 

"King  Edward,"  said  Warwick  moodily,  "tried  services 
merit  not  this  contempt.  It  is  not  as  the  kith  of  the  Queen 
that  I  regret  to  see  lands  and  honors  lavished  upon  men,  rooted 
so  newly  to  the  soil  that  the  first  blast  of  the  war-trump  will 
scatter  their  greenness  to  the  winds.  But  what  sorrows  me  is  to 
mark  those  who  have  fought  against  thee,  preferred  to  the  stout 
loyalty  that  braved  block  and  field  for  thy  cause.  Look  round 
thy  court;  where  are  the  men  of  bloody  York  and  victorious 
Touton? — unrequited,  sullen  in  their  strongholds,  begirt  with 
their  yeomen  and  retainers.  Thou  standest — thou,  the  heir 
of  York — almost  alone  (save  where  the  Neviles — whom  one  day 
thy  court  will  seek  also  to  disgrace  and  discard — vex  their  old 
comrades  in  arms  by  their  defection) — thou  standest  almost 
alone  among  the  favorites  and  minions  of  Lancaster.  Is  there 
no  danger  in  proving  to  men  that  to  have  served  thee  is  dis- 
credit— to  have  warred  against  thee  is  guerdon  and  grace?" 

"Enough  of  this,  cousin,"  replied  the  King,  with  an  effort 
which  preserved  his  firmness.  "On  this  head  we  cannot  agree. 
Take  what  else  thou  wilt  of  royalty:  make  treaties  and  contract 
marriages;  establish  peace  or  proclaim  war ;  but  trench  not  on 
my  sweetest  prerogative  to  give  and  to  forgive.  And  now, 
wilt  thou  tarry  and  sup  with  us?  The  ladies  grow  impatient  of 
a  commune  that  detains  from  their  eyes  the  stateliest  knight 
since  the  Round  Table  was  chopped  into  firewood." 

"No,  my  liege,"  said  Warwick,  whom  flattery  of  this  sort 
rather  angered  than  soothed,  "I  have  much  yet  to  prepare.  I 
leave  Your  Highness  to  fairer  homage  and  more  witching  coun- 
sels than  mine."  So  saying,  he  kissed  the  King's  hand,  and 
was  retiring,  when  he  remembered  his  kinsman,  whose  humble 
interest,  in  the  midst  of  more  exciting  topics,  he  had  hitherto 
forgotten,  and  added:  "May  I  crave,  since  you  are  so  merci- 
ful to  the  Lancastrians,  one  grace  for  my  namesake — a  Nevile, 
whose  father  repented  the  side  he  espoused — a  son  of  Sir  Guy 
of  Arsdale." 

"Ah,"  said  the  King,  smiling  maliciously,  "it  pleaseth  us 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  1OJ 

much  to  find  that  it  is  easier  to  the  warm  heart  of  our  cousin 
Warwick  to  preach  sententiaries  of  sternness  to  his  King,  than 
to  enforce  the  same  by  his  own  practice!" 

"You  misthink  me,  sire.  I  ask  not  that  Marmaduke  Nevile 
should  supplant  his  superiors  and  elders;  I  ask  not  that  he 
should  be  made  baron  and  peer ;  I  ask  only  that  as  a  young 
gentleman,  who  hath  taken  no  part  himself  in  the  wars,  and 
whose  father  repented  his  error,  Your  Grace  should  strengthen 
your  following  by  an  ancient  name  and  a  faithful  servant.  But 
I  should  have  remembered  me  that  his  name  of  Nevile  would 
have  procured  him  a  taunt  in  the  place  of  advancement." 

"Saw  man  ever  so  froward  a  temper?"  cried  Edward,  not 
without  reason.  '  'Why,  Warwick,  thou  art  as  shrewish  to  a  jest 
as  a  woman  to  advice.  Thy  kinsman's  fortunes  shall  be  my 
care.  Thou  sayest  thou  hast  enemies — I  weet  not  who  they 
be.  But  to  show  what  I  think  of  them,  I  make  thy  namesake 
and  client  a  gentleman  of  my  chamber.  When  Warwick  is  false 
to  Edward,  let  him  think  that  Warwick's  kinsman  wears  a 
dagger  within  reach  of  the  King's  heart  day  and  night." 

This  speech  was  made  with  so  noble  and  touching  a  kindness 
of  voice  and  manner,  that  the  Earl,  thoroughly  subdued,  looked 
at  his  sovereign  with  moistened  eyes,  and  only  trusting  himself 
to  say:  "Edward,  thou  art  king,  knight,  gentleman,  and  sol- 
dier, and  I  verily  trow  that  I  love  thee  best  when  my  petulant 
zeal  makes  me  anger  thee  most,"  turned  away  with  evident 
emotion,  and  passing  the  Queen  and  her  ladies  with  a  lowlier 
homage  than  that  with  which  he  had  before  greeted  them,  left 
the  garden.  Edward's  eye  followed  him,  musingly.  The  frank 
expression  of  his  face  vanished,  and  with  the  deep  breath  of  a 
man  who  is  throwing  a  weight  from  his  heart,  he  muttered: 

"He  loves  me — yes — but  will  suffer  no  one  else  to  love  me! 
This  must  end  some  day.  I  am  weary  of  the  bondage."  And 
sauntering  towards  the  ladies,  he  listened  in  silence,  but  not 
apparently  in  displeasure,  to  his  Queen's  sharp  sayings  on  the 
imperious  mood  and  irritable  temper  of  the  iron-handed 
builder  of  his  throne. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE     ANTECHAMBER. 

As  Warwick  passed  the  door  that  led  from  the  garden,  he 
brushed  by  a  young  man,  the  baudekin  stripes  of  whose  vest 
announced  his  relationship  to  the  King,  and  who,  though  far 
less  majestic  than  Edward,  possessed  sufficient  of  family  like- 


108  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

ness  to  pass  for  a  very  handsome  and  comely  person.  But  his 
countenance  wanted  the  open  and  fearless  expression  which 
gave  that  of  the  King  so  masculine  and  heroic  a  character. 
The  features  were  smaller,  and  less  clearly  cut,  and  to  a  physi- 
ognomical observer  there  was  much  that  was  weak  and  irreso- 
lute in  the  light  blue  eyes  and  the  smiling  lips,  which  never 
closed  firmly  over  the  teeth.  He  did  not  wear  the  long  gown 
then  so  much  in  vogue,  but  his  light  figure  was  displayed  to  ad- 
vantage by  a  vest,  fitting  it  exactly,  descending  half-way  down 
the  thigh,  and  trimmed  at  the  border  and  the  collar  with  ermine. 
The  sleeves  of  the  doublet  were  slit,  so  as  to  show  the  white 
lawn  beneath,  and  adorned  with  aiglets  and  knots  of  gold. 
Over  the  left  arm  hung  a  rich  jacket  of  furs  and  velvet,  some- 
thing like  that  adopted  by  the  modern  hussar.  His  hat  or  cap 
was  high  and  tiara-like,  with  a  single  white  plume,  and  the  rib- 
bon of  the  garter  bound  his  knee.  Though  the  dress  of  this 
personage  was  thus  far  less  effeminate  than  Edward's,  the  effect 
of  his  appearance  was  infinitely  more  so — partly,  perhaps,  from 
a  less  muscular  frame,  and  partly  from  his  extreme  youth.  For 
George  Duke  of  Clarence  was  then,  though  initiated  not  only 
in  the  gayeties,  but  all  the  intrigues,  of  the  court,  only  in  his 
eighteenth  year.  Laying  his  hand,  every  finger  of  which 
sparkled  with  jewels,  on  the  Earl's  shoulder:  "Hold!"  said 
the  young  Prince,  in  a  whisper,  "a  word  in  thy  ear,  noble  War- 
wick." 

The  Earl,  who,  next  to  Edward,  loved  Clarence  the  most  of 
his  princely  house,  and  who  always  found  the  latter  as  docile  as 
the  other  (when  humor  or  affection  seized  him)  was  intractable, 
relaxed  into  a  familiar  smile  at  the  duke's  greeting,  and  suf- 
fered the  young  Prince  to  draw  him  aside  from  the  group  of 
courtiers,  with  whom  the  chamber  was  filled,  to  the  leaning 
places  (as  they  were  called)  of  a  large  mullion  window.  In  the 
mean  while,  as  they  thus  conferred,  the  courtiers  interchanged 
looks,  and  many  an  eye  of  fear  and  hate  was  directed  towards 
the  stately  form  of  the  Earl.  For  these  courtiers  were  composed 
principally  of  the  kindred  of  friends  of  the  Queen,  and  though 
they  dared  not  openly  evince  the  malice  with  which  they  re- 
torted Warwick's  lofty  scorn  and  undisguised  resentment  at 
their  new  fortunes,  they  ceased  not  to  hope  for  his  speedy 
humiliation  and  disgrace,  recking  little  what  storm  might  rend 
the  empire,  so  that  it  uprooted  the  giant  oak,  which  still,  in 
some  measure,  shaded  their  sunlight  and  checked  their  growth. 
True,  however,  that  amongst  these  were  mingled,  though 
rarely,  men  of  a  hardier  stamp  and  nobler  birth — some  few  of 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  IO0 

the  veteran  friends  of  the  King's  great  father — and  these,  keep- 
ing sternly  and  loftily  aloof  from  the  herd,  regarded  Warwick 
with  the  same  almost  reverential  and  yet  affectionate  admiration 
which  he  inspired  amongst  the  yeomen,  peasants,  and  mechan- 
ics ;  for  in  that  growing,  but  quiet  struggle  of  the  burgesses,  as 
it  will  often  happen  in  more  civilized  times,  the  great  Aristoc- 
racy and  the  Populace  were  much  united  in  affection,  though 
with  very  different  objects;  and  the  Middle  and  Trading  Class, 
with  whom  the  Earl's  desire  for  French  alliances  and  disdain 
of  commerce  had  much  weakened  his  popularity,  alone  shared 
not  the  enthusiasm  of  their  countrymen  for  the  lion-hearted 
minister. 

Nevertheless,  it  must  here  be  owned,  that  the  rise  of  Eliza- 
beth's kindred  introduced  a  far  more  intellectual,  accomplished, 
and  literary  race  into  court  favor,  than  had  for  many  genera- 
tions flourished  in  so  uncongenial  a  soil:  and  in  this  ante- 
chamber feud,  the  pride  of  education  and  mind  retaliated,  with 
juster  sarcasm,  the  pride  of  birth  and  sinews. 

Amongst  those  opposed  to  the  Earl,  and  fit  in  all  qualities  to 
be  the  head  of  the  new  movement — if  the  expressive  modern 
word  be  allowed  us — stood  at  that  moment  in  the  very  centre 
of  the  chamber,  Anthony  Woodville — in  right  of  the  rich  heiress 
he  had  married,  the  Lord  Scales.  As  when  some  hostile  and 
formidable  foe  enters  the  meads  where  the  flock  grazes,  the 
gazing  herd  gather  slowly  round  their  leader,  so  grouped  the 
Queen's  faction  slowly,  and  by  degrees,  round  this  accomplished 
nobleman,  at  the  prolonged  sojourn  of  Warwick. 

"Gramercy!"  said  the  Lord  Scales,  in  a  somewhat  affected 
intonation  of  voice,  "the  conjunction  of  the  bear  and  the  young 
lion  is  a  parlous  omen,  for  the  which  I  could  much  desire  we 
had  a  wise  astrologer's  reading." 

"It  is  said,"  observed  one  of  the  courtiers,  "that  the  Duke 
of  Clarence  much  affects  either  the  lands  or  the  person  of  the 
Lady  Isabel." 

"A  passably  fair  damozel,"  returned  Anthony,  "though  a 
thought  or  so  too  marked  and  high  in  her  lineaments,  and 
wholly  unlettered,  no  doubt ;  which  were  a  pity,  for  George  of 
Clarence  hath  some  pretty  taste  in  the  arts  and  poesies.  But 
as  Occleve  hath  it : 

'  Gold,  silver,  jewel,  cloth,  beddying,  array,' 

would  make  gentle  George  amorous  of  a  worse-featured  face 
than  high-nosed  Isabel;  'strange  to  spell  or  rede,'  as  I  would 
wager  my  best  destrier  to  a  tailor's  hobby,  the  damozel  surely 
is." 


110  THfc    LAST    OF    THE    BARON:,. 

"Notest  thou  yon  gaudy  popinjay?"  whispered  the  Lord  of 
St.  John  to  one  of  his  Teuton  comrades,  as,  leaning  against 
the  wall,  they  overheard  the  sarcasms  of  Anthony,  and  the 
laugh  of  the  courtiers,  who  glassed  their  faces  and  moods  to 
his;  "Is  the  time  so  out  of  joint  that  Master  Anthony  Wood- 
ville  can  vent  his  scurrile  japes  on  the  heiress  of  Salisbury  and 
Warwick,  in  the  King's  chamber?" 

"And  prate  of  spelling  and  reading,  as  if  they  were  the  car- 
dinal virtues,"  returned  his  sullen  companion.  "By  my  hali- 
dame,  I  have  two  fair  daughters  at  home  who  will  lack  hus- 
bands, I  trow,  for  they  can  only  spin  and  be  chaste — two 
maidenly  gifts  out  of  bloom  with  the  White  Rose." 

In  the  mean  while,  unwitting,  or  contemptuous  of  the  atten- 
tion they  excited,  Warwick  and  Clarence  continued  yet  more 
earnestly  to  confer. 

"No,  George,  no,"  said  the  Earl,  who  as  the  descendant  of 
John  of  Gaunt,  and  of  kin  to  the  King's  blood,  maintained  in 
private  a  father's  familiarity  with  the  princes  of  York,  though 
on  state  occasions,  and  when  in  the  hearing  of  others,  he  sedu- 
lously marked  his  deference  for  their  rank — "no,  George,  calm 
and  steady  thy  hot  mettle,  for  thy  brother's  and  England's 
sake.  I  grieve  as  much  as  thou  to  hear  that  the  Queen  does 
not  spare  even  thee  in  her  froward  and  unwomanly  peevishness. 
But  there  is  a  glamour  in  this,  believe  me,  that  must  melt  away, 
soon  or  late,  and  our  kingly  Edward  recover  his  senses." 

"Glamour!"  said  Clarence,  "thinkest  thou  indeed,  that  her 
mother,  Jacquetta,  has  bewitched  the  King?  One  word  of  thy 
belief  in  such  spells,  spread  abroad  amongst  the  people,  would 
soon  raise  the  same  storm  that  blew  Eleanor  Cobham  from  Duke 
Humphrey's  bed,  along  London  streets  in  her  penance  shift. " 

"Troth,"  said  the  Earl  indifferently,  "I  leave  such  grave 
questions  as  these  to  prelate  and  priest ;  the  glamour  I  spoke 
of,  is  that  of  a  fair  face  over  a  wanton  heart;  and  Edward  is 
not  so  steady  a  lover  that  this  should  never  wear  out!" 

"It  amates  me  much,  noble  cousin,  that  thou  leavest  the 
court  in  this  juncture.  The  Queen's  heart  is  with  Burgundy — 
the  city's  hate  is  with  France — and  when  once  thou  art  gone, 
I  fear  that  the  King  will  be  teased  into  mating  my  sister  with 
the  Count  of  Charolois." 

"Ho!"  exclaimed  Warwick,  with  an  oath  so  loud  that  it 
rung  through  the  chamber,  and  startled  every  ear  that  heard  it. 
Then,  perceiving  his  indiscretion,  he  lowered  his  tone  into  a 
deep  and  hollow  whisper,  and  griped  the  Prince's  arm  almost 
fiercely  as  he  spoke. 


1'HE   LAST   Olf   THE   BARONS.  Hi 

"Could  Edward  so  dishonor  my  embassy;  so  palter  and 
juggle  with  my  faith ;  so  flout  me  in  the  eyes  of  Christendom, 
I  would — I  would — "he  paused,  and  relaxed  his  hold  of  the 
Duke,  and  added,  with  an  altered  voice — "I  would  leave  his 
wife  and  his  lemans,  and  yon  things  of  silk,  whom  he  makes 
peers  (that  is  easy),  but  cannot  make  men — to  guard  his  throne 
from  the  grandson  of  Henry  V.  But  thy  fears,  thy  zeal,  thy 
love  for  me,  dearest  prince  and  cousin,  make  thee  misthink 
Edward's  kingly  honor  and  knightly  faith.  I  go,  with  the  sure 
knowledge  that  by  alliance  with  France  I  shut  the  house  of 
Lancaster  from  all  hope  of  this  roiaulme." 

"Hadst  thou  not  better,  at  least,  see  my  Sister  Margaret — 
she  has  a  high  spirit,  and  she  thinks  thou  mightest,  at  least, 
woo  her  assent,  and  tell  her  of  the  good  gifts  of  her  lord  to  be ! " 

"Are  the  daughters  of  York  spoilt  to  this  by  the  manners 
and  guise  of  a  court  in  which  beshrew  me  if  I  well  know  which 
the  woman  and  whom  the  man?  Is  it  not  enough  to  give 
peace  to  broad  England,  root  to  her  brother's  stem?  Is  it  not 
enough  to  wed  the  son  of  a  king,  the  descendant  of  Charle- 
magne and  St.  Louis?  Must  I  go  bonnet  in  hand  and  simper 
forth  the  sleek  personals  of  the  choice  of  her  kith  and  house ; 
swear  the  bridegroom's  side-locks  are  as  long  as  King  Ed- 
ward's, and  that  he  bows  with  the  grace  of  Master  Anthony 
Woodville?  Tell  her  this  thyself,  gentle  Clarence,  if  thou 
wilt:  all  Warwick  could  say  would  but  anger  her  ear,  if  she  be 
the  maid  thou  bespeakest  her." 

The  Duke  of  Clarence  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then,  color- 
ing slightly,  said:  "If,  then,  the  daughter's  hand  be  the  gift  of 
her  kith  alone  shall  I  have  thy  favor  when  the  Lady  Isabel — " 

"George,"  interrupted  Warwick,  with  a  fond  and  paternal 
smile,  "when  we  have  made  England  safe,  there  is  nothing  the 
son  of  Richard  of  York  can  ask  of  Warwick  in  vain.  Alas'" 
he  added  mournfully,  "thy  father  and  mine  were  united  in  the 
same  murtherous  death,  and  I  think  they  will  smile  down  on 
us  from  their  seats  in  heaven  when  a  happier  generation  ce- 
ments that  bloody  union  with  a  marriage  bond!" 

Without  waiting  for  further  parlance,  the  Earl  turned  sud- 
denly away,  threw  his  cap  on  his  towering  head,  and  strode 
right  through  the  centre  of  the  whispering  courtiers,  who 
shrunk,  louting  low,  from  his  haughty  path,  to  break  into  a 
hubbub  of  angry  exclamations,  or  sarcastic  jests,  at  his  unman- 
nerly bearing,  as  his  black  plume  disappeared  in  the  arch  of 
the  vaulted  door. 

While  such  the  scene  in  the  interior  chambers  of  the  oalace, 


JT2  THR  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

Marmadukc,  with  the  frank  simpleness  which  belonged  to  his 
youth  and  training,  had  already  won  much  favor  and  popular- 
ity, and  he  was  laughing  loud  with  a  knot  of  young  men  by  the 
shovel-board,  when  Warwick  re-entered.  The  Earl,  though 
so  disliked  by  the  courtiers  more  immediately  about  the  person 
of  the  King,  was  still  the  favorite  of  the  less  elevated  knights 
and  gentry  who  formed  the  subordinate  household  and  retain- 
ers ;  and  with  these,  indeed,  his  manner,  so  proud  and  arro- 
gant to  his  foes  and  rivals,  relapsed  at  once  into  the  ease  of  the 
manly  and  idolized  chief.  He  was  pleased  to  see  the  way 
made  by  his  young  namesake,  and  lifting  his  cap,  as  he  nodded 
to  the  group,  and  leant  his  arm  upon  Marmaduke's  shoulder, 
he  said:  "Thanks,  and  hearty  thanks,  to  you,  knights  and  gen- 
tles, for  your  courteous  reception  of  an  old  friend's  young  son. 
I  have  our  King's  most  gracious  permission  to  see  him  enrolled 
one  of  the  court  ye  grace.  Ah !  Master  Falconer,  and  how 
does  thy  worthy  uncle? — braver  knight  never  trod.  What 
young  gentleman  is  yonder? — a  new  face  and  a  manly  one;  by 
your  favor,  present  him! — the  son  of  a  Savile!  Sir,  on  my 
return,  be  not  the  only  Savile  who  shuns  our  table  of  War- 
wick-court. Master  Dacres,  commend  me  to  the  lady,  your 
mother ;  she  and  I  have  danced  many  a  measure  together  in 
the  old  time — we  all  live  again  in  our  children.  Good  den  to 
you,  sirs.  Marmaduke.  follow  me  to  the  office — you  lodge  in 
the  palace.  You  are  gentleman  to  the  most  gracious,  and,  if 
Warwick  lives,  to  the  most  puissant  of  Europe's  sovereigns.  I 
shall  see  Montagu  at  home;  he  shall  instruct  thee  in  thy 
duties,  and  requite  thee  for  all  discourtesies  on  the  archery 
ground." 


BOOK  III. 

IN  WHICH  THE  HISTORY  PASSES  FROM  THE  KING'S 
COURT  TO  THE  STUDENT'S  CELL,  AND  RELATES  THE 
PERILS  THAT  BEFEL  A  PHILOSOPHER  FOR  MEDDLING 
WITH  THE  AFFAIRS  OF  THE  WORLD. 

CHAPTER   I. 
THE   SOLITARY    SAGE    AND    THE    SOLITARY    MAID. 

WHILE  such  the  entrance  of  Marmaduke  Nevile  into  a  court 
that,  if  far  less  intellectual  and  refined  than  those  of  later  days, 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  fI3 

was  yet  more  calculated  to  dazzle  the  fancy,  to  sharpen  the 
wit,  and  to  charm  the  senses;  for  round  the  throne  of  Edward 
IV.,  chivalry  was  magnificent,  intrigue  restless,  and  pleasure 
ever  on  the  wing, — Sibyll  had  ample  leisure,  in  her  solitary 
home,  to  muse  over  the  incidents  that  had  preceded  the  de- 
parture of  the  young  guest.  Though  she  had  rejected  Marma- 
duke's  proffered  love,  his  tone,  so  suddenly  altered;  his 
abrupt,  broken  words  and  confusion;  his  farewell,  so  soon 
succeeding  his  passionate  declaration,  could  not  fail  to  wound 
that  pride  of  woman  which  never  sleeps  till  modesty  is  gone. 
But  this  made  the  least  cause  of  the  profound  humiliation 
which  bowed  down  her  spirit.  The  meaning  taunt  conveyed 
in  the  rhyme  of  the  tymbesteres,  pierced  her  to  the  quick ;  the 
calm,  indifferent  smile  of  the  stranger,  as  he  regarded  her; 
the  beauty  of  the  dame  he  attended,  woke  mingled  and  con- 
trary feelings,  but  those  of  jealousy  were,  perhaps,  the  keenest : 
and  in  the  midst  of  all  she  started  to  ask  herself,  if  indeed  she 
had  suffered  her  vain  thoughts  to  dwell  too  tenderly  upon  one 
from  whom  the  vast  inequalities  of  human  life  must  divide 
her  evermore — What  to  her  was  his  indifference?  Nothing; 
yet  had  she  given  worlds  to  banish  that  careless  smile  from  her 
remembrance. 

Shrinking,  at  last,  from  the  tyranny  of  thoughts  till  of  late 
unknown,  her  eye  rested  upon  the  gipsire  which  Alwyn  had 
sent  her  by  the  old  servant.  The  sight  restored  to  her  the 
holy  recollection  of  her  father,  the  sweet  joy  of  having  minis- 
tered to  his  wants.  She  put  up  the  little  treasure,  intending 
to  devote  it  all  to  Warner;  and,  after  bathing  her  heavy  eyes, 
that  no  sorrow  of  hers  might  afflict  the  student,  she  passed, 
with  a  listless  step,  into  her  father's  chamber. 

There  is,  to  the  quick  and  mercurial  spirits  of  the  young, 
something  of  marvellous  and  preternatural  in  that  life  within 
life,  which  the  strong  passion  of  science  and  genius  forms  and 
feeds— that  passion  so  much  stronger  than  love,  and  so  much 
more  self-dependent;  which  asks  no  sympathy,  leans  on  no 
kindred  heart ;  which  lives  alone  in  its  works  and  fancies  like 
a  god  amidst  his  creations. 

The  philosopher,  too,  had  experienced  a  great  affliction  since 
they  met  last.  In  the  pride  of  his  heart  he  had  designed  to 
show  Marmaduke  the  mystic  operations  of  his  model,  which 
had  seemed  that  morning  to  open  into  life;  and  when  the 
young  man  was  gone,  and  he  made  the  experiment  alone,  alas! 
he  found  that  new  progress  but  involved  him  in  new  difficulties. 
He  had  gained  the  first  steps  in  the  gigantic  creation  of  modern 


114  THK  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

days,  and  he  was  met  by  the  obstacle  that  baffled  so  long  the 
great  modern  sage.  There  was  the  cylinder — there  the  boiler; 
yet,  work  as  he  would,  the  steam  failed  to  keep  the  cylinder  at 
work.  And  now,  patiently  as  the  spider  re-weaves  the  broken 
web,  his  untiring  ardor  was  bent  upon  constructing  a  new  cyl- 
inder of  other  materials.  "Strange,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that 
the  heat  of  the  mover  aids  not  the  movement";  and  so,  blun- 
dering near  the  truth,  he  labored  on. 

Sibyll,  meanwhile,  seated  herself  abstractedly  on  a  heap  of 
fagots,  piled  in  the  corner,  and  seemed  busy  in  framing  char- 
acters on  the  dusty  floor  with  the  point  of  her  tiny  slipper.  So 
fresh  and  fair  and  young  she  seemed,  in  that  murky  atmos- 
phere, that  strange  scene,  and  beside  that  worn  man,  that  it 
might  have  seemed,  to  a  poet,  as  if  the  youngest  of  the  Graces 
were  come  to  visit  Mulciber  at  his  forge. 

The  man  pursued  his  work,  the  girl  renewed  her  dreams — 
the  dark  evening  hour  gradually  stealing  over  both.  The  si- 
lence was  unbroken,  for  the  forge  and  the  model  were  now  at 
rest,  save  by  the  grating  of  Adam's  file  upon  the  metal,  or  by 
some  ejaculation  of  complacency  now  and  then  vented  by  the 
enthusiast.  So,  apart  from  the  many-noised,  gaudy,  babbling 
world  without,  even  in  the  midst  of  that  bloody,  turbulent, 
and  semi-barbarous  time,  went  on  (the  one  neglected  and  un- 
known, the  other  loathed  and  hated),  the  two  movers  of  the 
ALL  that  continues  the  airy  life  of  the  Beautiful  from  age  to 
age — the  Woman's  dreaming  Fancy,  and  the  Man's  active 
Genius. 

CHAPTER   II. 

MASTER     ADAM      WARNER     GROWS     A     MISER,      AND     BEHAVES 
SHAMEFULLY. 

FOR  two  or  three  days  nothing  disturbed  the  outward  monot- 
ony of  the  recluse's  household.  Apparently  all  had  settled 
back  as  before  the  advent  of  the  young  cavalier.  But  Sibyll's 
voice  was  not  heard  singing,  as  of  old,  when  she  passed  the  stairs 
to  her  father's  room.  She  sate  with  him  in  his  work  no  less 
frequently  and  regularly  than  before ;  but  her  childish  spirits 
no  longer  broke  forth  in  idle  talk  or  petulant  movement,  vex- 
ing the  good  man  from  his  absorption  and  his  toils.  The  little 
cares  and  anxieties,  which  had  formerly  made  up  so  much  of 
Sibyll's  day,  by  forethought  of  provision  for  the  morrow,  were 
suspended;  for  the  money  transmitted  to  her  by  Alwyn,  in 
return  for  the  emblazoned  MSS.,  was  sufficient  to  supply  their 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  115 

modest  wants  for  months  to  come.  Adam,  more  and  more 
engrossed  in  his  labors,  did  not  appear  to  perceive  the  daintier 
plenty  of  his  board,  nor  the  purchase  of  some  small  comforts 
unknown  for  years.  He  only  said,  one  morning:  "It  is 
strange,  girl,  that  as  that  gathers  in  life  (and  he  pointed  to  the 
model),  it  seems  already  to  provide,  to  my  phantasy,  the  lux- 
uries it  will  one  day  give  to  us  all  in  truth.  Methought  my 
very  bed  last  night  seemed  wondrous  easy,  and  the  coverings 
were  warmer,  for  I  woke  not  with  the  cold!" 

"Ah!"  thought  the  sweet  daughter,  smiling  through  moist 
eyes,  "while  my  cares  can  smooth  thy  barren  path  through  lite, 
why  should  I  cark  and  pine?" 

Their  solitude  was  now  occasionally  broken  in  the  evenings 
by  the  visits  of  Nicholas  Alwyn.  The  young  goldsmith  was 
himself  not  ignorant  of  the  simpler  mathematics;  he  had  some 
talent  for  invention,  and  took  pleasure  in  the  construction  of 
horologes,  though,  properly  speaking,  not  a  part  of  his  trade. 
His  excuse  for  his  visits  was  the  wish  to  profit  by  Warner's 
mechanical  knowledge ;  but  the  student  was  so  wrapped  in  his 
own  pursuits,  that  he  gave  but  little  instruction  to  his  visitor. 
Neverthless,  Alwyn  was  satisfied,  for  he  saw  Sibyll.  He  saw 
her  in  the  most  attractive  phase  of  her  character — the  loving, 
patient,  devoted  daughter ;  and  the  view  of  her  household  vir- 
tues affected  more  and  more  his  honest  English  heart.  But, 
ever  awkward  and  embarrassed,  he  gave  no  vent  to  his  feelings. 
To  Sibyll  he  spoke  little,  and  with  formal  constraint ;  and  the 
girl,  unconscious  of  her  conquest,  was  little  less  indifferent  to 
his  visits  than  her  abstracted  father. 

But  all  at  once  Adam  woke  to  a  sense  of  the  change  that  had 
taken  place — all  at  once  he  caught  scent  of  gold,  for  his  works 
were  brought  to  a  pause  for  want  of  some  finer  and  more  costly 
materials  than  the  coins  in  his  own  possession  (the  remnant  of 
Marmaduke's  gift)  enabled  him  to  purchase.  He  had  stolen 
out  at  dusk  unknown  to  Sibyll,  and  lavished  the  whole  upon 
the  model,  but  in  vain!  The  model  in  itself  was,  indeed, 
completed;  his  invention  had  mastered  the  difficulty  that  it  had 
encountered.  But  Adam  had  complicated  the  contrivance  by 
adding  to  it  experimental  proofs  of  the  agency  it  was  intended 
to  exercise.  It  was  necessary  in  that  age,  if  he  were  to  con- 
vince others,  to  show  more  than  the  principle  of  his  engine,  he 
must  show  also  something  of  its  effects;  turn  a  mill  without 
wind  or  water,  or  set  in  motion  some  mimic  vehicle  without 
other  force  than  that  the  contrivance  itself  supplied.  And 
here,  at  every  step,  new  obstacles  arose.  It  was  the  misfor- 


Il6  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

tune  to  science  in  those  days,  not  only  that  all  books  and 
mathematical  instruments  were  enormously  dear,  but  that  the 
students,  still  struggling  into  light  through  the  glorious  delu- 
sions of  alchemy  and  mysticism,  imagined  that,  even  in  simple 
practical  operations,  there  were  peculiar  virtues  in  virgin  gold 
and  certain  precious  stones.  A  link  in  the  process  upon  which 
Adam  was  engaged  failed  him :  his  ingenuity  was  baffled,  his 
work  stood  still;  and  in  poring  again  and  again  over  the 
learned  MSS,  alas!  now  lost,  in  which  certain  German  doctors 
had  sought  to  explain  the  pregnant  hints  of  Roger  Bacon,  he 
found  it  inculcated  that  the  axle  of  a  certain  wheel  must  be 
composed  of  a  diamond.  Now  in  truth,  it  so  happened  that 
Adam's  contrivance,  which  (even  without  the  appliances  which 
were  added  in  illustration  of  the  theory)  was  infinitely  more 
complicated  than  modern  research  has  found  necessary,  did 
not  even  require  the  wheel  in  question,  much  less  the  absent 
diamond;  it  happened,  also,  that  his  understanding,  which, 
though  so  obtuse  in  common  life,  was  in  these  matters  aston- 
ishingly clear,  could  not  trace  any  mathematical  operations  by 
which  the  diamond  axle  would  in  the  least  correct  the  difficulty 
that  had  suddenly  started  up ;  and  yet  the  accursed  diamond 
began  to  haunt  him — the  German  authority  was  so  positive  on 
the  point,  and  that  authority  had  in  many  respects  been  accu- 
rate. Nor  was  this  all — the  diamond  was  to  be  no  vulgar  dia- 
mond: it  was  to  be  endowed,  by  talismanic  skill,  with  certain 
properties  and  virtues ;  it  was  to  be  for  a  certain  number  of 
hours  exposed  to  the  rays  of  the  full  moon ;  it  was  to  be 
washed  in  a  primitive  and  wondrous  elixir,  the  making  of 
which  consumed  no  little  of  the  finest  gold.  This  diamond 
was  to  be  to  the  machine  what  the  soul  is  to  the  body — a  glori- 
ous, all-pervading,  mysterious  principle  of  activity  and  life. 
Such  were  the  dreams  that  obscured  the  cradle  of  infant 
science!  And  Adam,  with  all  his  reasoning  powers,  his  lore 
in  the  hard  truths  of  mathematics,  was  but  one  of  the  giant 
children  of  the  dawn.  The  magnificent  phrases  and  solemn 
promises  of  the  mystic  Germans  got  firm  hold  of  his  fancy. 
Night  and  day,  waking  or  sleeping,  the  diamond,  basking  in 
the  silence  of  the  full  moon,  sparkled  before  his  eyes — mean- 
while all  was  at  a  stand.  In  the  very  last  steps  of  his  discov- 
ery he  was  arrested.  Then  suddenly  looking  round  for  vulgar 
moneys  to  purchase  the  precious  gem,  and  the  materials  for 
the  soluble  elixir,  he  saw  that  MONEY  had  been  at  work  around 
him ;  that  he  had  been  sleeping  softly  and  faring  sumptuously. 
He  was  seized  with  a  divine  rage.  How  had  Sibyll  dared  to 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  1 1'/ 

secrete  from  him  this  hoard?  How  presumed  to  waste  upon 
the  base  body  what  might  have  so  profited  the  eternal  mind? 
In  his  relentless  ardor,  in  his  sublime  devotion  and  loyalty  to 
his  abstract  idea,  there  was  a  devouring  cruelty,  of  which  this 
meek  and  gentle  scholar  was  wholly  unconscious.  The  grim 
iron  model,  like  a  Moloch,  ate  up  all  things — health,  life,  love — 
and  its  jaws  now  opened  for  his  child.  He  rose  from  his 
bed — it  was  daybreak — he  threw  on  his  dressing  robe;  he  strode 
into  his  daughter's  room;  the  gray  twilight  came  through  the 
comfortless,  curtainless  casement,  deep-sunk  into  the  wall. 
Adam  did  not  pause  to  notice  that  the  poor  child,  though  she 
had  provoked  his  anger  by  refitting  his  dismal  chamber,  had 
spent  nothing  in  giving  a  less  rugged  frown  to  her  own. 

The  scanty  worm-worn  furniture,  the  wretched  pallet,  the 
poor  attire  folded  decently  beside — nothing,  save  that  inex- 
pressible purity  and  cleanliness  which,  in  the  lowliest  hovel,  a 
pure  and  maiden  mind  gathers  round  it — nothing  to  distinguish 
the  room  of  her  whose  childhood  had  passed  in  courts  from 
the  hut  of  the  meanest  daughter  of  drudgery  and  toil !  No — 
he  who  had  lavished  the  fortunes  of  his  father  and  his  child 
into  the  grave  of  his  idea — no — he  saw  nothing  of  this  self- 
forgetful  penury — the  diamond  danced  before  him!  He  ap- 
proached the  bed — and  oh !  the  contrast  of  that  dreary  room 
and  peasant  pallet,  to  the  delicate,  pure,  enchanting  loveliness 
of  the  sleeping  inmate.  The  scanty  covering  left  partially  ex- 
posed the  snow-white  neck  and  rounded  shoulder;  the  face  was 
pillowed  upon  the  arm,  in  an  infantine  grace;  the  face  was 
slightly  flushed,  and  the  fresh  red  lips  parted  into  a  smile — for 
in  her  sleep  the  virgin  dreamed — a  happy  dream?  It  was  a 
sight  to  have  touched  a  father's  heart,  to  have  stopped  his  foot- 
step, and  hushed  his  breath  into  prayer.  And  call  not  Adam 
hard,  unnatural,  that  he  was  not  then,  as  men  far  more  harsh 
than  he — for  the  father  at  that  moment  was  not  in  his  breast — • 
the  human  man  was  gone — he  himself,  like  his  model,  was  <* 
machine  of  iron! — his  life  was  his  one  idea!" 

"Wake,  child,  wake!"  he  said,  in  a  loud  but  hollow  voice. 
"Where  is  the  gold  thou  hast  hidden  from  me?  Wake — 
confess!" 

Roused  from  her  gracious  dreams  thus  savagely,  Sibyll 
started,  and  saw  the  eager,  darkened  face  of  her  father.  Its 
expression  was  peculiar  and  undefinable,  for  it  was  not  threat- 
ening, angry,  stern;  there  was  a  vacancy  in  the  eyes,  a  strain  in 
the  features,  and  yet  a  wild  intense  animation  lighting  and  per- 
vading all — it  was  as  the  face  of  one  walking  in  his  sleep;  and 


Il8  THE.  I, AST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

at  the  first  confusion  of  waking  Sibyll  thought  indeed  that  such 
was  her  father's  state.  But  the  impatience  with  which  he 
shook  the  arm  he  grasped  and  repeated  as  he  opened  convul- 
sively his  other  hand:  "The  gold,  Sibyll — the  gold:  Why  didst 
thou  hide  it  from  me?"  speedily  convinced  her  that  her  fath- 
er's mind  was  under  the  influence  of  the  prevailing  malady 
that  made  all  its  weakness  and  all  its  strength. 

"My  poor  father!"  she  said  pityingly,  "wilt  thou  not  leave 
thyself  the  means  whereby  to  keep  strength  and  health  for 
thine  high  hopes.  Ah,  father,  thy  Sibyll  only  hoarded  her  poor 
gains  for  thee!" 

"The  gold!"  said  Adam  mechanically,  but  in  a  softer 
voice — "all — all  thou  hast!  How  didst  thou  get  it — how?" 

"By  the  labors  of  these  hands.     Ah,  do  not  frown  on  me!" 

"Thou — the  child  of  knightly  fathers — thou  labor!"  said 
Adam,  an  instinct  of  his  former  state  of  gentle-born  and  high- 
hearted youth  flashing  from  his  eyes.  "It  was  wrong  in  thee!" 

"Dost  thoujiot  labor  too?" 

"Ay,  but  for  the  world.     Well — the  gold!" 

Sibyll  rose,  and  modestly  throwing  over  her  form  the  old 
mantle  which  lay  on  the  pallet,  passed  to  a  corner  of  the  room, 
and  opening  a  chest,  took  from  it  the  gipsire,  and  held  it  out 
to  her  father. 

"If  it  please  thee,  dear  and  honored  sir,  so  be  it;  and 
Heaven  prosper  it  in  thy  hands!" 

Before  Adam's  clutch  could  close  on  the  gipsire,  a  rude 
hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder,  the  gipsire  was  snatched  from 
Sibyll,  and  the  gaunt,  half-clad  form  of  old  Madge  interposed 
between  the  two. 

"Eh,  sir!"  she  said,  in  her  shrill,  cracked  tone,  "I  thought, 
when  I  heard  your  door  open,  and  your  step  hurrying  down, 
you  were  after  no  good  deeds.  Fie,  master,  fie!  I  have 
clung  to  you  when  all  reviled,  and  when  starvation  within  and 
foul  words  without  made  all  my  hire ;  for  I  ever  thought  you  a 
good  and  mild  man,  though  little  better  than  stark  wode.  But, 
augh!  to  rob  your  poor  child  thus;  to  leave  her  to  starve  and 
pine!  We  old  folks  are  used  to  it.  Look  round — look  round; 
I  remember  this  chamber,  when  ye  first  came  to  your  father's 
halls.  Saints  of  heaven !  There  stood  the  brave  bed  all  rustl- 
ing with  damask  of  silk ;  on  those  stone  walls  once  hung  fine 
arras  of  the  Flemings — a  marriage  gift  to  my  lady  from  Queen 
Margaret,  and  a  mighty  show  to  see,  and  good  for  the  soul's 
comforts,  with  Bible  stories  wrought  on  it.  Eh,  sir!  don't 
you  call  to  mind  your  namesake,  Master  Adam,  in  his  brave 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  119 

scarlet  hosen,  and  Madam  Eve,  in  her  bonny  blue  kirtle  and 
laced  courtpie ;  and  now — now  look  round,  I  say,  and  see  what 
you  have  brought  your  child  to!" 

"Hush!  hush!  Madge,  hush!"  cried  Sibyll,  while  Adam 
gazed  in  evident  perturbation  and  awakening  shame  at  the  in- 
truder, turning  his  eyes  round  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and 
heaving  from  time  to  time  short,  deep  sighs. 

"But  I  will  not  hush,"  pursued  the  old  woman;  "I  will  say 
my  say,  for  I  love  ye  both,  and  I  loved  my  poor  mistress,  who 
is  dead  and  gone.  Ah,  sir,  groan !  it  does  you  good.  And 
now  when  this  sweet  damsel  is  growing  up,  now  when  you 
should  think  of  saving  a  marriage  dower  for  her  (for  no  mar- 
riage where  no  pot  boils),  do  you  rend  from  her  the  little  that 
she  has  drudged  to  gain! — She!  Oh,  out  on  your  heart? 
And  for  what — for  what,  sir?  For  the  neighbors  to  set  fire  to 
your  father's  house,  and  the  little  ones  to — " 

"Forbear,  woman!"  cried  Adam,  in  a  voice  of  thunder, 
"forbear!  Leave  us!"  And  he  waved  his  hand  as  he  spoke, 
with  so  unexpected  a  majesty  that  Madge  was  awed  into  sud^ 
den  silence,  and,  darting  a  look  of  compassion  at  Sibyll,  she 
hobbled  from  the  room.  Adam  stood  motionless  an  instant; 
but  when  he  felt  his  child's  soft  arms  round  his  neck;  when 
he  heard  her  voice  struggling  against  tears,  praying  him  not  to 
heed  the  foolish  words  of  the  old  servant — to  take — to  take 
all — that  it  would  be  easy  to  gain  more — the  ice  of  his  philos- 
ophy melted  at  once — the  man  broke  forth,  and,  clasping 
Sibyll  to  his  heart,  and  kissing  her  cheek,  her  lips,  her  hands, 
he  faltered  out:  "No!  no: — forgive  me! — forgive  thy  cruel 
father!  Much  thought  has  maddened  me,  I  think — it  has  in- 
deed! Poor  child,  poor  Sibyll,"  and  he  stroked  her  cheek 
gently,  and  with  a  movement  of  pathetic  pity — "poor  child, 
thou  art  pale ;  and  so  slight  and  delicate !  And  this  cham- 
ber— and  thy  loneliness — and — ah !  my  life  hath  been  a  curse 
to  thee,  yet  I  meant  to  bequeath  it  a  boon  to  all!" 

"Father,  dear  father,  speak  not  thus.  You  break  my  heart. 
Here,  here — take  the  gold ;  or  rather,  for  thou  must  not  ven- 
ture out  to  insult  again,  let  me  purchase  with  it  what  thou 
needest.  Tell  me,  trust  me — " 

"No!"  exclaimed  Adam,  with  that  hollow  energy  by  which 
a  man  resolves  to  impose  restraint  on  himself;  "I  will  not,  for 
all  that  science  ever  achieved — I  will  not  lay  this  shame  on  my 
soul.  Spend  this  gold  on  thyself:  trim  this  room;  buy  thee 
raiment — all  that  thou  needest — I  order — I  command  it !  And 
hark  thee,  if  thou  gettest  more,  hide  it  from  me — hide  it  well — 


120  THE    LAST    OK    T1IK    BARONS. 

men's  desires  are  foul  tempters!  I  never  knew,  in  following 
wisdom,  that  I  had  a  vice.  I  wake  and  find  myself  a  miser 
and  a  robber!" 

And  with  these  words  he  fled  from  the  girl's  chamber, 
gained  his  own,  and  locked  the  door. 

CHAPTER  III. 

A     STRANGE     VISITOR — ALL       AGES     OF     THE     WORLD     BREED 
WORLD-BETTERS. 

SIBYLL,  whose  soft  heart  bled  for  her  father,  and  who  now 
reproached  herself  for  having  concealed  from  him  her  little 
hoard,  began  hastily  to  dress  that  she  might  seek  him  out,  and 
soothe  the  painful  feelings  which  the  honest  rudeness  of  Madge 
had  aroused.  But  before  her  task  was  concluded,  there  pealed 
a  loud  knock  at  the  outer  door.  She  heard  the  old  house- 
keeper's quivering  voice  responding  to  a  loud  clear  tone;  and 
presently  Madge  herself  ascended  the  stairs  to  Warner's  room, 
followed  by  a  man  whom  Sibyll  instantly  recognized,  for  he 
was  not  one  easily  to  be  forgotten,  as  their  protector  from  the 
assault  of  the  mob.  She  drew  back  hastily  as  he  passed  her 
door,  and  in  some  wonder  and  alarm  awaited  the  descent  of 
Madge.  That  venerable  personage  having  with  some  difficulty 
induced  her  master  to  open  his  door  and  admit  the  stranger, 
came  straight  into  her  young  lady's  chamber.  "Cheer  up — 
cheer  up,  sweetheart,"  said  the  old  woman,  "I  think  better 
days  will  shine  soon ;  for  the  honest  man  I  have  admitted  says 
he  is  but  come  to  tell  Master  Warner  something  that  will  re- 
dound much  to  his  profit.  Oh !  he  is  a  wonderful  fellow,  this 
same  Robin !  You  saw  how  he  turned  the  cullions  from  burn- 
ing the  old  house!" 

"What!  you  know  this  man,  Madge!    What  is  he,  and  who?" 

Madge  looked  puzzled.  "That  is  more  than  I  can  say, 
sweet  mistress.  But  though  he  has  been  but  some  weeks  in 
the  neighborhood,  they  all  hold  him  in  high  count  and  esteem. 
For  why — it  is  said  he  is  a  rich  man  and  a  kind  one.  He  does 
a  world  of  good  to  the  poor." 

While  Sibyll  listened  to  such  explanations  as  Madge  could 
give  her,  the  stranger,  who  had  carefully  closed  the  door  of 
the  student's  chamber,  after  regarding  Adam  for  a  moment 
with  silent  but  keen  scrutiny,  thus  began : 

"When  last  we  met,  Adam  Warner,  it  was  with  satchels  on 
our  backs.  Look  well  at  me!" 

"Troth,"  answered  Adam  languidly,  for  he  was  still  under 


THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS.  121 

the  deep  dejection  that  had  followed  the  scene  with  Sibyll,  "I 
cannot  call  you  to  mind,  nor  seems  it  veritable  that  our  school- 
days passed  together,  seeing  that  my  hair  is  gray  and  men  call 
me  old;  but  thou  art  in  all  the  lustihood  of  this  human  life." 

"Nathless,"  returned  the  stranger,  "there  are  but  two  years 
or  so  between  thine  age  and  mine.  When  thou  wert  poring 
over  the  crabbed  text,  and  pattering  Latin  by  the  ell,  dost  thou 
not  remember  a  lack-grace,  good-for-nought  Robert  Hilyard, 
who  was  always  setting  the  school  in  an  uproar,  and  was  finally 
outlawed  from  that  boy-world  as  he  hath  been  since  from  the 
man's  world,  for  inciting  the  weak  to  resist  the  strong?" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Adam,  with  a  gleam  of  something  like 
joy  on  his  face;  "art  thou,  indeed,  that  riotous,  brawling, 
fighting,  frank-hearted,  bold  fellow,  Robert  Hilyard?  Ha! 
ha! — those  were  merry  days!  I  have  known  none  like 
them — " 

The  old  schoolfellows  shook  hands  heartily. 

"The  world  has  not  fared  well  with  thee  in  person  or  pouch, 
I  fear  me,  poor  Adam,"  said  Hilyard;  "thou  canst  scarcely 
have  passed  thy  fiftieth  year,  and  yet  thy  learned  studies  have 
given  thee  the  weight  of  sixty;  while  I,  though  ever  in  toil  and 
bustle,  often  wanting  a  meal,  and  even  fearing  the  halter,  am 
strong  and  hearty  as  when  I  shot  my  first  fallow  buck  in  the 
King's  forest,  and  kissed  the  forester's  pretty  daughter.  Yet, 
methinks,  Adam,  if  what  I  hear  of  thy  task  be  true,  thou  and 
I  have  each  been  working  for  one  end;  thou  to  make  the 
world  other  than  it  is,  and  I  to — " 

"What!  hast  thou  too,  taken  nourishment  from  the  bitter 
milk  of  Philosophy — thou,  fighting  Rob?" 

"I  know  not  whether  it  be  called  philosophy — but  marry, 
Edward  of  York  would  call  it  rebellion ;  they  are  much  the 
same,  for  both  war  against  rules  established ! ' '  returned  Hil- 
yard, with  more  depth  of  thought  than  his  careless  manner 
seemed  to  promise.  He  paused,  and  laying  his  broad  brown 
hand  on  Warner's  shoulder,  resumed:  "Thou  art  poor, 
Adam!" 

4 '  Very  poor — very — very ! ' ' 

"Does  thy  philosophy  disdain  gold?" 

"What  can  philosophy  achieve  without  it?  She  is  a  hungry 
dragon,  and  her  very  food  is  gold." 

"Wilt  thou  brave  some  danger — thou  wert  ever  a  fearless 
boy  when  thy  blood  was  up,  though  so  meek  and  gentle — wilt 
thou  brave  some  clanger  for  large  reward?" 

"My  life  braves  the  scorn  of  men,  the  pinchings  of  famine, 


122  THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

and,  it  may  be,  the  stake  and  the  fagot.  Soldiers  brave  not 
the  dangers  that  arc  braved  by  a  wise  hum  in  an  unwise  age!" 

"Gramercy!  thou  hast  a  hero's  calm  aspect  while  thou 
speakest,  and  thy  words  move  me!  Listen!  Thou  were  wont, 
when  Henry  of  Windsor  was  King  of  England,  to  visit  and 
confer  with  him  on  learned  matters.  He  is  now  a  captive  in 
the  Tower;  but  his  gaolers  permit  him  still  to  receive  the  visits 
of  pious  monks  and  harmless  scholars.  I  ask  thee  to  pay  him 
such  a  visit,  and  for  this  office  I  am  empowered  by  richer  men 
than  myself  to  award  thee  the  guerdon  of  twenty  broad  pieces 
of  gold." 

"Twenty! — A  mine! — A  Tmolus!"  exclaimed  Adam,  in 
uncontrollable  glee.  "Twenty! — O  true  friend! — then  my 
work  will  be  born  at  last!" 

"But  hear  me  further,  Adam,  for  I  will  not  deceive  thee; 
the  visit  hath  its  peril!  Thou  must  first  see  if  the  mind  of 
King  Henry,  for  king  he 'is,  though  the  usurper  wear  his  holy 
crown,  be  clear  and  healthful.  Thou  knowest  he  is  subject  to 
dark  moods — suspension  of  man's  reason  ;  and  if  he  be,  as  his 
friends  hope,  sane  and  right-judging,  thou  wilt  give  him  cer- 
tain papers,  which,  after  his  hand  has  signed  them,  thou  wilt 
bring  back  to  me.  If  in  this  thou  succeedest,  know  that  thou 
mayest  restore  the  royalty  of  Lancaster  to  the  purple  and  the 
throne ;  that  thou  wilt  have  princes  and  earls  for  favorers  and 
protectors  to  thy  learned  life;  that  thy  fortunes  and  fame  are 
made!  Fail,  be  discovered — and  Edward  of  York  never 
spares!  Thy  guerdon  will  be  the  nearest  tree  and  the  strong- 
est rope!" 

"Robert,"  said  Adam,  who  had  listened  to  this  address  with 
unusual  attention,  "thou  dealest  with  me  plainly,  and  as  man 
should  deal  with  man.  I  know  little  of  stratagem  and  polity, 
wars  and  kings ;  and  save  that  King  Henry,  though  passing 
ignorant  in  the  mathematics,  and  more  given  to  alchemists  than 
to  solid  seekers  after  truth,  was  once  or  twice  gracious  to  me, 
I  could  have  no  choice,  in  these  four  walls,  between  an  Edward 
and  a  Henry  on  the  throne.  But  I  have  a  king  whose  throne 
is  in  mine  own  breast,  and,  alack,  it  taxeth  me  heavily,  and 
with  sore  burdens." 

"I  comprehend."  said  the  visitor,  glancing  round  the  room — 
"I  comprehend — thou  wantest  money  for  thy  books  and  in- 
struments, and  thy  melancholic  passion  is  thy  sovereign. 
Thou  wilt  incur  the  risk?" 

"I  will,"  said  Adam.  "I  would  rather  seek  in  the  lion's 
den  for  what  I  lack,  than  do  what  I  well-nigh  did  this  day." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  1 23 

"What  crime  was  that,  poor  scholar?"  said  Robert,  smiling. 

"My  child  worked  for  her  bread,  and  my  luxuries — I  would 
have  robbed  her,  old  schoolfellow.  Ha!  ha! — what  is  cord 
And  gibbet  to  one  so  tempted?" 

A  tear  stood  in  the  bright  gray  eyes  of  the  bluff  visitor. 

"Ah!  Adam,"  he  said  sadly,  "only  by  the  candle  held  in 
the  skeleton  hand  of  Poverty  can  man  read  his  own  dark  heart. 
But  thou,  Workman  of  Knowledge,  hast  the  same  interest  as 
the  poor,  who  dig  and  delve.  Though  strange  circumstance 
hath  made  me  the  servant  and  emissary  of  Margaret,  think  not 
that  I  am  but  the  varlet  of  the  great." 

Hilyard  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed : 

"Thou  knowest,  peradventure,  that  my  race  dates  from  an 
elder  date  than  these  Norman  nobles,  who  boast  their  robber- 
fathers.  From  the  renowned  Saxon  Thane,  who,  free  of  hand 
and  of  cheer,  won  the  name  of  Hildegardis,*  our  family  took 
its  rise.  But  under  these  Norman  barons,  we  sank  with  the 
nation  to  which  we  belonged.  Still  were  we  called  gentlemen, 
and  still  were  dubbed  knights.  But,  as  I  grew  up  to  man's  es- 
tate, I  felt  myself  more  Saxon  than  gentleman,  and,  as  one  of 
a  subject  and  vassal  race,  I  was  a  son  of  the  Saxon  people. 
My  father,  like  thee,  was  a  man  of  thought  and  bookcraft.  I 
dare  own  to  thee  that  he  was  a  Lollard,  and  with  the  religion 
of  those  bold  foes  to  priest-vice,  goes  a  spirit  that  asks  why  the 
people  should  be  evermore  the  spoil  and  prey  of  lords  and  kings. 
Early  in  my  youth,  my  father,  fearing  rack  and  fagot  in  Eng- 
land, sought  refuge  in  the  Hans  Town  of  Lubeck.  There  I 
learned  grave  truths — how  liberty  can  be  won  and  guarded. 
Later  in  life  I  saw  the  republics  of  Italy,  and  I  asked  why  they 
were  so  glorious  in  all  the  arts  and  craft  of  civil  life,  while  the 
braver  men  of  France  and  England  seemed  as  savages  by  the 
side  of  the  Florentine  burgess,  nay,  of  the  Lombard  vine-dres- 
ser. I  saw  that  even  when  those  republics  fell  a  victim  to 
some  tyrant  or  podesta,  their  men  still  preserved  rights  and  ut- 
tered thoughts  which  left  them  more  free  and  more  great  than 
the  Commons  of  England,  after  all  their  boasted  wars.  I  came 
back  to  my  native  land  and  settled  in  the  North,  as  my  frank- 
lin ancestry  before  me.  The  broad  lands  of  my  forefathers  had 
devolved  on  the  elder  line,  and  gave  a  knight's  fee  to  Sir  Rob- 
ert Hilyard,  who  fell  afterwards  at  Teuton  for  the  Lancas- 
trians. But  I  had  won  gold  in  the  far  countree,  and  I  took 
farm  and  homestead  near  Lord  Warwick's  tower  of  Middle- 

*  Hildegardis,  viz.,  old  German,  a  person  of  noble  or  generous  disposition.  Wotton'j 
Baronetage.  Art.  Hiiyard,  or  Hildyard,  of  Pattrington. 


124  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

ham.  The  feud  between  Lancaster  and  York  broke  forth; 
Earl  Warwick  summoned  his  retainers,  myself  amongst  them, 
since  I  lived  upon  his  land;  I  sought  the  great  Earl,  and  told 
him  boldly — him  whom  the  Commons  deemed  a  friend  and  a 
foe  to  all  malfaisance  and  abuse — I  told  him  that  the  war  he 
asked  me  to  join  seemed  to  me  but  a  war  of  ambitious  lords, 
and  that  I  saw  not  how  the  Commons  were  to  be  bettered,  let 
who  would  be  king.  The  Earl  listened  and  deigned  to  reason: 
and  when  he  saw  I  was  not  convinced,  he  left  me  to  my  will; 
for  he  is  a  noble  chief,  and  I  admired  even  his  angry  pride,  when 
he  said:  'Let  no  man  fight  for  Warwick  whose  heart  beats  not 
in  his  cause.'  I  lived  afterwards  to  discharge  my  debt  to  the 
proud  Earl,  and  show  him  how  even  the  lion  may  be  meshed, 
and  how  even  the  mouse  may  gnaw  the  net.  But  to  my  own 
tragedy.  So  I  quitted  those  parts,  for  I  feared  my  own  reso- 
lution near  so  great  a  man:  I  made  a  new  home  not  far 
from  the  city  of  York.  So,  Adam,  when  all  the  land  around 
bristled  with  pike  and  gisarrne,  and  while  my  own  cousin  and 
namesake,  the  head  of  my  house,  was  winning  laurels  and  wast- 
ing blood,  I,  thy  quarrelsome,  fighting  friend,  lived  at  home  in 
peace  with  my  wife  and  child  (for  I  was  now  married,  and  wife 
and  child  were  dear  to  me)  and  tilled  my  lands.  But  in  peace 
I  was  active  and  astir,  for  my  words  inflamed  the  bosoms  of 
laborers  and  peasants,  and  many  of  them,  benighted  as  they 
were,  thought  with  me.  One  day — I  was  absent  from  home, 
selling  my  grain  in  the  marts  of  York — one  day  there  entered 
the  village  a  young  captain,  a  boy-chief,  Edward  Earl  of 
March,  beating  for  recruits.  Dost  thou  heed  me,  Adam? 
Well,  man — well,  the  peasants  stood  aloof  from  tromp  and 
banner,  and  they  answered,  to  all  the  talk  of  hire  and  fame: 
'Robin  Hilyard  tells  us  we  have  nothing  to  gain  but  blows — 
?eave  us  to  hew  and  to  delve.'  Oh!  Adam,  this  boy — this 
chief — the  Earl  of  March,  now  crowned  King  Edward,  made  but 
one  reply:  'This  Robin  Hilyard  must  be  a  wise  man — show  me 
his  house.'  They  pointed  out  the  ricks,  the  barns,  the  home- 
stead, and  in  five  minutes  all — all  were  in  flames.  'Tell  the 
hilding,  when  he  returns,  that  thus  Edward  of  March,  fair  to 
friends  and  terrible  to  foes,  rewards  the  coward  who  disaffects 
the  men  of  Yorkshire  to  their  chief.'  And  by  the  blazing 
rafters,  and  the  pale  faces  of  the  silent  crowd,  he  rode  on  his 
way  to  battle  and  the  throne!" 

Hilyard  paused,  and  the  anguish  of  his  countenance  was  ter- 
rible to  behold. 

"I  returned  to  find  a  heap  of  ashes:  I  returned  to  find  my 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  125 

wife  a  maniac;  I  returned  to  find  my  child — my  boy — great 
God! — he  had  run  to  hide  himself,  in  terror  at  the  torches  and 
the  grim  men ;  they  had  failed  to  discover  him,  till,  too  late, 
his  shrieks,  amidst  the  crashing  walls,  burst  on  his  mother's 
ear — and  the  scorched,  mangled,  lifeless  corpse  lay  on  that 
mother's  bosom!" 

Adam  rose;  his  figure  was  transformed;  not  the  stooping 
student,  but  the  knight-descended  man,  seemed  to  tower  in  the 
murky  chamber;  his  hands  felt  at  his  side,  as  for  a  sword;  he 
stifled  a  curse,  and  Hilyard,  in  that  suppressed  low  voice 
which  evinces  a  strong  mind  in  deep  emotion,  continued  his 
tale. 

"Blessed  be  the  divine  Intercessor,  the  mother  of  the  dead 
died  too!  Behold  me,  a  lonely,  ruined,  wifeless,  childless 
wretch !  I  made  all  the  world  my  foe !  The  old  love  of  lib- 
erty (alone  left  me)  became  a  crime;  I  plunged  into  the  gloom 
of  the  forest,  a  robber-chief,  sparing — no,  never — never — 
never!  one  York  captain,  one  spurred  knight,  one  belted  lord! 
But  the  poor,  my  Saxon  countrymen,  they  had  suffered,  and 
were  safe! 

"One  dark  twilight — thou  hast  heard  the  tale,  every  village 
minstrel  sets  it  to  his  viol — a  majestic  woman — a  hunted  fugi- 
tive— crossed  my  path;  she  led  a  boy  in  her  hand,  a  year  or  so 
younger  than  my  murdered  child.  'Friend!'  said  the  woman 
fearlessly,  'save  the  son  of  your  king:  I  am  Margaret,  Queen 
of  England ! '  I  saved  them  both.  From  that  hour,  the  robber- 
chief,  the  Lollard's  son,  became  a  queen's  friend.  Here 
opened,  at  least,  vengeance  against  the  fell  destroyer.  Now 
see  you  why  I  seek  you — why  tempt  you  into  danger?  Pause 
if  you  will,  for  my  passion  heats  my  blood ;  and  all  the  kings 
since  Saul,  it  may  be,  are  not  worth  one  scholar's  life!  And 
yet,"  continued  Hilyard,  regaining  his  ordinary  calm  tone, 
"and  yet,  it  seemeth  to  me,  as  I  said  at  first,  that  all  who  labor 
have,  in  this,  a  common  cause  and  interest  with  the  poor. 
This  woman-king,  though  bloody  man,  with  his  wine-cups  and 
his  harlots — this  usurping  York — his  very  existence  flaunts  the 
life  of  the  sons  of  toil.  In  civil  war  and  in  broil,  in  strife  that 
needs  the  arms  of  the  people,  the  people  shall  get  their 
own." 

"I  will  go,"  said  Adam,  and  he  advanced  to  the  door. 

Hilyard  caught  his  arm.  "Why,  friend,  thou  hast  not  even 
the  documents,  and  how  wouldst  thou  get  access  to  the  pris- 
on? Listen  to  me;  or,"  added  the  conspirator,  observing  poor 
Adam's  abstracted  air,  "or  let  me  rather  speak  a  word  to  thy 


126  THE    LAST   OF    THF.    BAkONS. 

fair  daughter;  women  have  ready  wit,  and  are  the  pioneers  to 
the  advance  of  men!  Adam!  Adam!  thou  art  dreaming!" 
He  shook  the  philosopher's  arm  roughly. 

"I  heed  you,"  said  Warner  meekly. 

"The  first  thing  required,"  renewed  Hilyard,  "is  a  permit 
to  see  King  Henry.  This  is  obtained  either  from  the  Lord 
Worcester,  governor  of  the  Tower,  a  cruel  man,  who  may  deny 
it,  or  the  Lord  Hastings,  Edward's  chamberlain,  a  humane 
and  gentle  one,  who  will  readily  grant  it.  Let  not  thy  daugh- 
ter know  why  thou  wouldst  visit  Henry ;  let  her  suppose  it  is 
solely  to  make  report  of  his  health  to  Margaret ;  let  her  not 
know  there  is  scheming  or  danger;  so,  at  least,  her  ignorance 
will  secure  her  safety.  But  let  her  go  to  the  lord  chamberlain, 
and  obtain  the  order  for  a  learned  clerk  to  visit  the  learned 
prisoner — to — ha!  well  thought  of — this  strange  machine  is, 
doubtless,  the  invention  of  which  thy  neighbors  speak;  this 
shall  make  thy  excuse;  thou  wouldst  divert  the  prisoner  with 
thy  mechanical — comprehendest  thou,  Adam?" 

"Ah!  King  Henry  will  see  the  model,  and  when  he  is  on 
the  throne — " 

"He  will  protect  the  scholar!"  interrupted  Hilyard.  "Good! 
good!  Wait  here — I  will  confer  with  thy  daughter." 

He  gently  pushed  aside  Adam,  opened  the  door,  and  on  de- 
scending the  stairs,  found  Sibyll  by  the  large  casement  where 
she  had  stood  with  Marmaduke,  and  heard  the  rude  stave  of 
the  tymbesteres. 

The  anxiety  the  visit  of  Hilyard  had  occasioned  her  was  at 
once  allayed,  when  he  informed  her  that  he  had  been  her  father's 
schoolmate  and  desired  to  become  his  friend.  And  when  he 
drew  a  moving  picture  of  the  exiled  condition  of  Margaret  and 
the  young  prince,  and  their  natural  desire  to  learn  tidings  of 
the  health  of  the  deposed  king,  her  gentle  heart,  forgetting  the 
haughty  insolence  with  which  her  royal  mistress  had  often 
wounded  and  chilled  her  childhood,  felt  all  the  generous  and 
compassionate  sympathy  the  conspirator  desired  to  awaken. 
"The  occasion,"  added  Hilyard,  "for  learning  the  poor  cap- 
tive's state  now  offers!  He  hath  heard  of  your  father's  labors; 
he  desires  to  learn  their  nature  from  his  own  lips.  He  is  allowed 
to  receive,  by  an  order  from  King  Edward's  chamberlain,  the 
visits  of  those  scholars  in  whose  converse  he  was  ever  wont  to 
delight.  Wilt  thou  so  far  aid  the  charitable  work  as  to  seek 
the  Lord  Hastings,  and  crave  the  necessary  license?  Thou 
seest  that  thy  father  has  wayward  and  abstract  moods ;  he  might 
forget  that  Henry  of  Windsor  is  no  longer  king,  and  might  give 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  127 

him  that  title  in  speaking  to  Lord  Hastings — a  slip  of  the 
tongue  which  the  law  styles  treason." 

"Certes,"  said  Sibyll  quickly,  "if  my  father  would  seek  the 
poor  captive,  I  will  be  his  messenger  to  my  Lord  Hastings. 
But,  oh,  sir!  as  thou  hast  known  my  father's  boyhood,  and  as 
thou  hopest  for  mercy  in  the  last  day,  tempt  to  no  danger  one 
so  guileless?" 

Hilyard  winced  as  he  interrupted  her  hastily: 

"There  is  no  danger  if  thou  wilt  obtain  the  license.  I  will 
say  more — a  reward  awaits  him,  that  will  not  only  banish  his 
poverty  but  save  his  life." 

"His  life!" 

"Ay!  seest  thou  not,  fair  mistress,  that  Adam  Warner  is  dy- 
ing, not  of  the  body's  hunger,  but  of  the  soul's?  He  craveth 
gold,  that  his  toils  may  reap  their  guerdon.  If  that  gold  be 
denied,  his  toils  will  fret  him  to  the  grave!" 

"Alas!  alas!  it  is  true." 

"That  gold  he  shall  honorably  win!  Nor  is  this  all.  Thou 
wilt  see  the  Lord  Hastings :  he  is  less  learned,  perhaps,  than 
Worcester;  less  dainty  in  accomplishments  and  gifts  than  An- 
thony Woodville,  but  his  mind  is  profound  and  vast;  all  men 
praise  him,  save  the  Queen's  kin.  He  loves  scholars;  he  is 
mild  to  distress ;  he  laughs  at  the  superstitions  of  the  vulgar. 
Thou  wilt  see  the  Lord  Hastings,  and  thou  mayst  interest  him 
in  thy  father's  genius  and  his  fate!" 

"There  is  frankness  in  thy  voice,  and  I  will  trust  thee,"  an- 
swered Sibyll.  "When  shall  I  seek  this  lord?" 

"This  day,  if  thou  wilt.  He  lodges  at  the  Tower,  and  gives 
access,  it  is  said,  to  all  who  need  his  offices,  or  seek  succor 
from  his  power." 

"This  day,  then,  be  it!"  answered  Sibyll  calmly. 

Hilyard  gazed  at  her  countenance,  rendered  so  noble  in  its 
youthful  resignation,  in  its  soft  firmness  of  expression,  and 
muttering:  "Heaven  prosper  thee,  maiden;  we  shall  meet  to- 
morrow,"  descended  the  stairs,  and  quitted  the  house. 

His  heart  smote  him  when  he  was  in  the  street.  "If  evil 
should  come  to  this  meek  scholar — to  that  poor  child's  father, 
it  would  be  a  sore  sin  to  my  soul.  But  no ;  I  will  not  think  it. 
The  saints  will  not  suffer  this  bloody  Edward  to  triumph  long; 
and  in  this  vast  chess-board  of  vengeance  and  great  ends,  we 
must  move  men  to  and  fro,  and  harden  our  natures  to  the 
hazard  of  the  game." 

Sibyll  sought  her  father;  his  mind  had  flown  back  to  the 
model.  He  was  already  living  in  the  life  that  the  promised 


128  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

gold  would  give  to  the  dumb  thought.  True  that  all  the  in- 
genious additions  to  the  engine — additions  that  were  to  convince 
the  reason  and  startle  the  fancy,  were  not  yet  complete  (for  want, 
of  course,  of  the  diamond  bathed  in  moonbeams),  but  still  there 
was  enough  in  the  inventions  already  achieved  to  excite  curi- 
osity and  obtain  encouragement.  So,  with  care  and  diligence 
and  sanguine  hope,  the  philosopher  prepared  the  grim  model 
for  exhibition  to  a  man  who  had  worn  a  crown,  and  might  wear 
again.  But  with  that  innocent  and  sad  cunning  which  is  so 
common  with  enthusiasts  of  one  idea,  the  sublime  dwellers  of 
the  narrow  border  between  madness  and  inspiration,  Adam, 
amidst  his  excitement,  contrived  to  conceal  from  his  daughter 
all  glimpse  of  the  danger  he  run,  of  the  correspondence  of 
which  he  was  to  be  the  medium,  or  rather,  may  we  think  that 
he  had  forgotten  both !  Not  the  stout  Warwick  himself,  in  the 
roar  of  battle,  thought  so  little  of  peril  to  life  and  limb  as  that 
gentle  student,  in  the  reveries  of  his  lonely  closet;  and  there- 
fore, all  unsuspicious,  and  seeing  but  diversion  to  Adam's  recent 
gloom  of  despair,  an  opening  to  all  his  bright  prospects,  Sibyll 
attired  herself  in  her  holiday  garments,  drew  her  wimple  closely 
round  her  face,  and  summoning  Madge  to  attend  her,  bent  her 
way  to  the  Tower.  Near  York  House,  within  view  of  the 
Sanctuary  and  the  palace  of  Westminster,  they  took  a  boat, 
and  arrived  at  the  stairs  of  the  Tower. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LORD    HASTINGS. 

WILLIAM  LORD  HASTINGS  was  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  of  the  age.  Philip  de  Comines  bears  testimony  to  his 
high  repute  for  wisdom  and  virtue.  Born  the  son  of  a  knight 
of  ancient  lineage  but  scanty  lands,  he  had  risen,  while  yet  in 
the  prime  of  life,  to  a  rank  and  an  influence  second,  perhaps, 
only  to  the  house  of  Nevile.  Like  Lord  Montagu,  he  united 
in  happy  combination  the  talents  of  a  soldier  and  a  courtier. 
But  as  a  statesman,  a  schemer,  a  thinker,  Montagu,  with  all  his 
craft,  was  inferior  to  Hastings.  In  this,  the  latter  had  but  two 
equals,  viz.,  George,  the  youngest  of  the  Nevile  brothers,  Arch- 
bishop of  York;  and  a  boy,  whose  intellect  was  not  yet  fully 
developed,  but  in  whom  was  already  apparent  to  the  observant 
the  dawn  of  a  restless,  fearless,  calculating,  and  subtle  genius — 
that  boy,  whom  the  philosophers  of  Utrecht  had  taught  to  rea 
son.  whom  the  lessons  of  Warwick  had  trained  to  arms,  was 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  I2p 

Richard  Duke  of  Gloucester,  famous  even  now  for  his  skill  in 
the  tilt-yard,  and  his  ingenuity  in  the  rhetoric  of  the  schools. 

The  manners  of  Lord  Hastings  had  contributed  to  his  for- 
tunes. Despite  the  newness  of  his  honors,  even  the  haughtiest 
of  the  ancient  nobles  bore  him  no  grudge,  for  his  demeanor  was 
at  once  modest  and  manly.  He  was  peculiarly  simple  and 
unostentatious  in  his  habits,  and  possessed  that  nameless  charm 
which  makes  men  popular  with  the  lowly,  and  welcome  to  the 
great.*  But  in  that  day  a  certain  mixture  of  vice  was  neces- 
sary to  success ;  and  Hastings  wounded  no  self-love  by  the  as- 
sumption of  unfashionable  purism.  He  was  regard  with  small 
favor  by  the  Queen,  who  knew  him  as  the  companion  of  Edward 
in  his  pleasures,  and  at  a  later  period  accused  him  of  enticing 
her  faithless  lord  into  unworthy  affections.  And  certain  it  is 
that  he  was  foremost  amongst  the  courtiers  in  those  adventures 
which  we  call  the  excesses  of  gayety  and  folly,  though  too  often 
leading  to  Solomon's  wisdom  and  his  sadness.  But  profligacy, 
with  Hastings,  had  the  excuse  of  ardent  passions :  he  had  loved 
deeply,  and  unhappily,  in  his  earlier  youth,  and  he  gave  in  to 
the  dissipation  of  the  time  with  the  restless  eagerness  common 
to  strong  and  active  natures  when  the  heart  is  not  at  ease ;  and 
under  all  the  light  fascination  of  his  converse,  or  the  dissipa- 
tion of  his  life,  lurked  the  melancholic  temperament  of  a 
man  worthy  of  nobler  things.  Nor  was  the  courtly  vice  of 
the  libertine  the  only  drawback  to  the  virtuous  character  as- 
signed to  Hastings  by  Comines.  His  experience  of  men  had 
taught  him  something  of  the  disdain  of  the  cynic,  and  he 
scrupled  not  at  serving  his  pleasure  or  his  ambition  by  means 
which  his  loftier  nature  could  not  excuse  to  his  clear  sense,  f 
Still,  however,  the  world,  which  had  deteriorated,  could  not 
harden,  him.  Few  persons  so  able  acted  so  frequently  from 
impulse;  the  impulses  were,  for  the  most  part,  affectionate 
and  generous,  but  then  came  the  regrets  of  caution  and  ex- 
perience ;  and  Hastings  summoned  his  intellect  to  correct  the 
movement  of  his  heart — in  other  words,  reflection  sought  to 
undo  what  impulse  had  suggested.  Though  so  successful  a 
gallant,  he  had  not  acquired  the  ruthless  egotism  of  the  sensua- 
list; and  his  conduct  to  women  often  evinced  the  weakness  of 

*  On  Edward's  accession,  so  highly  were  the  services  of  Hastings  appreciated  by  the 
party,  that  not  only  the  King,  but  many  of  the  nobility,  contributed  to  render  his  wealth 
equal  to  his  .new  station,  by  grants  of  lands  and  moneys.  Several  years  afterwards,  when 
he  went  with  Edward  into  France,  no  less  than  two  lords,  nine  knights,  fifty-eight  squires, 
and  twenty  gentlemen,  joined  his  train. — Dugdale's  "  Baronage,"  p.  583.  Sharon  Turner's 
"  History  of  England,"  vol.  iii.  p.  380. 

t  See  Comines,  b.  vi.,  for  a  curious  anecdote  of  what  Mr.  Sharon  Turner  happily  calls 
14  the  moral  coquetry  "  of  Hastings— an  anecdote  which  reveals  much  of  his  character. 


130  THE   LAST   OF   THE    BARONS. 

giddy  youth,  rather  than  the  cold  deliberation  of  profligate  man- 
hood.  Thus  in  his  veriest  vices  there  was  a  spurious  amiability, 
a  seductive  charm ;  while  in  the  graver  affairs  of  life,  the  intel- 
lectual susceptibility  of  his  nature  served  but  to  quicken  his 
penetration  and  stimulate  his  energies,  and  Hastings  might  have 
said,  with  one  of  his  Italian  contemporaries:  "That  in  subjec- 
tion to  the  influences  of  women  he  had  learned  the  government 
of  men."  In  a  word,  his  powers  to  attract,  and  his  capacities 
to  command,  may  be  guessed  by  this :  that  Lord  Hastings  was 
the  only  man  Richard  III.  seems  to  have  loved,  when  Duke  of 
Gloucester,*  and  the  only  man  he  seems  to  have  feared  when 
resolved  to  be  King  of  England.  Hastings  was  alone  in  the 
apartments  assigned  to  him  in  the  Tower,  when  his  page,  with 
a  peculiar  smile,  announced  to  him  the  visit  of  a  young  donzell, 
who  would  not  impart  her  business  to  his  attendants. 

The  accomplished  chamberlain  looked  up  somewhat  im- 
patiently from  the  beautiful  MS.,  enriched  with  the  silver  verse 
of  Petrarch,  which  lay  open  on  his  table,  and,  after  muttering 
to  himself:  "It  is  only  Edward  to  whom  the  face  of  a  woman 
never  is  unwelcome,"  bade  the  page  admit  the  visitor. 

The  damsel  entered,  and  the  door  closed  upon  her. 

"Be  not  alarmed,  maiden,"  said  Hastings,  touched  by  the 
downcast  bend  of  the  hooded  countenance,  and  the  unmistaka- 
ble and  timid  modesty  of  his  vistor's  bearing.  "What  hast 
thou  to  say  to  me?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Sibyll  Warner  started,  and  uttered 
a  faint  exclamation.  The  stranger  of  the  pastime-ground  was 
before  her.  Instinctively  she  drew  the  wimple  yet  more  closely 
round  her  face,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  bolt  of  the  door  as 
if  in  the  impulse  of  retreat. 

The  nobleman's  curiosity  was  aroused.  He  looked  again  and 
earnestly  on  the  form  that  seemed  to  shrink  from  his  gaze ;  then 
rising  slowly,  he  advanced,  and  laid  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
"Donzell,  I  recognize  thee,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
cold  and  stern;  "What  service  wouldst  thou  ask  me  to  render 
thee!  Speak!  Nay!  I  pray  thee,  speak." 

"Indeed,  good  my  lord,"  said  Sibyll,  conquering  her  con- 
fusion ;  and,  lifting  her  wimple,  her  dark  blue  eyes  met  those 
bent  on  her,  with  fearless  truth  and  innocence,  "I  knew  not, 
and  you  will  believe  me — I  knew  not  till  this  moment  that  I  had 
such  cause  for  gratitude  to  the  Lord  Hastings.  I  sought  you 
but  on  the  behalf  of  my  father,  Master  Adam  Warner,  who 

*  Sir  Thomas  Moore,  "  Life  of  Edward  V. ,"  sneaks  of  "  the  great  love  "  Richard  bore 
to  Hastings, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  13! 

wcuid  fain  have  the  permission  accorded  to  other  scholars,  to 
see  the  Lord  Henry  of  Windsor,  who  was  gracious  to  him  in 
other  days,  and  to  while  the  duress  of  that  princely  captive  with 
the  show  of  a  quaint  instrument  he  has  invented." 

"Doubtless,"  answered  Hastings,  who  deserved  his  character 
(rare  in  that  day)  for  humanity  arid  mildness — "doubtless  it 
will  pleasure  me,  nor  offend  His  Grace  the  King,  to  show  all 
courtesy  and  indulgence  to  the  unhappy  gentleman  and  lord 
whom  the  weal  of  England  condemns  us  to  hold  incarcerate. 
I  have  heard  of  thy  father,  maiden — an  honest  and  simple  man, 
in  whom  we  need  not  fear  a  conspirator — and  of  the  young 
mistress,  I  have  heard  also,  since  we  parted." 

"Of  me,  noble  sir?" 

"Of  thee,"  said  Hastings,  with  a  smile;  and,  placing  a  seat 
for  her,  he  took  from  the  table  an  illuminated  MS.  "I  have  to 
thank  thy  friend,  Master  Aly wn,  for  procuring  me  this  treasure ! ' ' 

"What,  my  lord!"  said  Sibyll,  and  her  eyes  glistened, 
"were  you — you  the — the — " 

"The  fortunate  person  whom  Alwyn  has  enriched  at  so  slight 
a  cost.  Yes.  Do  not  grudge  me  my  good  fortune  in  this. 
Thou  hast  nobler  treasures,  methinks,  to  bestow  on  another!" 

"My  good  lord!" 

"Nay,  I  must  not  distress  thee.  And  the  young  gentleman 
has  a  fair  face;  may  it  bespeak  a  true  heart!" 

These  words  gave  Sibyll  an  emotion  of  strange  delight.  They 
seemed  spoken  sadly ;  they  seemed  to  betoken  a  jealous  sor- 
row: they  awoke  the  strange,  wayward,  woman-feeling,  which  is 
pleased  at  the  pain  that  betrays  the  woman's  influence:  the 
girl's  rosy  lips  smiled  maliciously.  Hastings  watched  her  and 
her  face  was  so  radiant  with  that  rare  gleam  of  secret  happi- 
ness— so  fresh,  so  young,  so  pure,  and  withal  so  arch  and  capti- 
vating, that  hackneyed  and  jaded  as  he  was  in  the  vulgar  pur- 
suit of  pleasure,  the  sight  moved  better  and  tenderer  feelings 
than  those  of  the  sensualist.  "Yes,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
"there  are  some  toys  it  were  a  sin  to  sport  with  and  cast  away 
amidst  the  broken  rubbish  of  gone  passions!" 

He  turned  to  the  table,  and  wrote  the  order  of  admission  to 
Henry's  prison,  and  as  he  gave  it  to  Sibyll,  he  said:  "Thy 
young  gallant,  I  see,  is  at  the  court  now.  It  is  a  perilous 
ordeal,  and  especially  to  one  for  whom  the  name  of  Nevile 
opens  the  road  to  advancement  and  honor.  Men  learn  betimes 
in  courts  to  forsake  Love  for  Plutus,  and  many  a  wealthy  lord 
would  give  his  heiress  to  the  poorest  gentleman  who  claims 
kindred  to  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  and  Warwick." 


132  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"May  my  father's  guest  so  prosper,"  answered  Sibyll,  "for 
he  seems  of  loyal  heart  and  gentle  nature!" 

"Thou  art  unselfish,  sweet  mistress,"  said  Hastings;  and, 
surprised  by  her  careless  tone,  he  paused  a  moment,  "or  art 
thou,  in  truth,  indifferent?  Saw  I  not  thy  hand  in  his,  when 
even  those  loathly  tymbesteres  chanted  warning  to  thee  for  lov- 
ing, not  above  thy  merits,  but  alas,  it  may  be,  above  thy  for- 
tunes?" 

Sibyll's  delight  increased.  Oh,  then,  he  had  not  applied 
that  hateful  warning  to  himself!  He  guessed  not  her  secret. 
She  blushed,  and  the  blush  was  so  chaste  and  maidenly,  while  the 
smile  that  went  with  it  was  so  ineffably  animated  and  joyous,  that 
Hastings  exclaimed,  with  unaffected  admiration:  "Surely,  fair 
donzell,  Petrarch  dreamed  of  thee,  when  he  spoke  of  the  woman- 
blush  and  the  angel-smile  of  Laura.  Woe  to  the  man  who 
would  injure  thee.  Farewell !  I  would  not  see  thee  too  often, 
unless  I  saw  thee  ever." 

He  lifted  her  hand  to  his  lips,  with  a  chivalrous  respect,  as 
he  spoke ;  opened  the  door,  and  called  his  page  to  attend  her 
to  the  gates. 

Sibyll  was  more  flattered  by  the  abrupt  dismissal,  than  if  he 
had  knelt  to  detain  her.  How  different  seemed  the  world  as 
her  light  step  wended  homeward ! 

CHAPTER  V. 

MASTER  ADAM  WARNER  AND  KING  HENRY  VI. 

THE  next  morning  Hilyard  revisited  Warner,  with  the  let- 
ters for  Henry.  The  conspirator  made  Adam  reveal  to  him  the 
interior  mechanism  of  the  Eureka  to  which  Adam,  who  had 
toiled  all  night,  had  appended  one  of  the  most  ingenious  con- 
trivances he  had  as  yet  been  enabled  (sans  the  diamond)  to  ac- 
complish, for  the  better  display  of  the  agencies  which  the  engine 
was  designed  to  achieve.  This  contrivance  was  full  of  strange 
cells  and  recesses,  in  one  of  which  the  documents  were  placed. 
And  there  they  lay,  so  well  concealed  as  to  puzzle  the  minutest 
search,  if  not  aided  by  the  inventor,  or  one  to  whom  he  had 
communicated  the  secrets  of  the  contrivance. 

After  repeated  warnings  and  exhortations  to  discretion,  Hil- 
yard then,  whose  busy,  active  mind  had  made  all  the  necessary 
arrangements,  summoned  a  stout-looking  fellow,  whom  he  had 
left  below,  and,  with  his  aid,  conveyed  the  heavy  machine 
across  the  garden,  to  a  back  lane,  where  a  mule  stood  ready  to 
receive  the  burden, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  133 

"'Suffer  this  trusty  fellow  to  guide  thee,  dear  Adam;  he  will 
take  thee  through  ways  where  thy  brutal  neighbors  are  not 
likely  to  meet  and  molest  thee.  Call  all  thy  wits  to  the  sur- 
face. Speed  and  prosper !" 

"Fear  not,"  said  Adam  disdainfully.  "In  the  neighorhood 
of  kings,  science  is  ever  safe.  Bless  thee,  child,"  and  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  Sibyll's  head,  for  she  had  accompanied  them 
thus  far  in  silence — "now  go  in." 

"I  go  with  thee,  father,"  said  Sibyll  firmly.  "Master  Hil- 
yard,  it  is  best  so,"  she  whispered ;  "what  if  my  father  fall  into 
one  of  his  reveries!" 

"You  are  right:  go  with  him,  at  least,  to  the  Tower-gate. 
Hard  by  is  the  house  of  a  noble  dame,  and  a  worthy,  known 
to  our  friend  Hugh,  where  thou  mayest  wait  Master  Warner's 
return.  It  will  not  suit  thy  modesty  and  sex  to  loiter  amongst 
the  pages  and  soldiery  in  the  yard.  Adam,  thy  daughter  must 
wend  with  thee." 

Adam  had  not  attended  to  this  colloquy,  and  mechanically 
bowing  his  head,  he  set  off,  and  was  greatly  surprised,  on  gain- 
ing the  river-side  (where  a  boat  was  found  large  enough  to  ac- 
commodate not  only  the  human  passengers,  but  the  mule  and 
its  burden),  to  see  Sibyll  by  his  side. 

The  imprisonment  of  the  unfortunate  Henry,  though  guarded 
with  sufficient  rigor  against  all  chances  of  escape,  was  not,  as 
the  reader  has  perceived,  at  this  period  embittered  by  unneces- 
sary harshness.  His  attendants  treated  him  with  respect,  his 
table  was  supplied  more  abundantly  and  daintily  than  his  ha- 
bitual  abstinence  required,  and  the  monks  and  learned  men 
whom  he  had  favored  were,  we  need  not  repeat,  permitted  to 
enliven  his  solitude  with  their  grave  converse. 

On  the  other  hand,  all  attempts  at  correspondence  between 
Margaret  or  the  exiled  Lancastrians  and  himself  had  been  jeal- 
ously watched,  and,  when  detected,  the  emissaries  had  been 
punished  with  relentless  severity.  A  man  named  Hawkins  had 
been  racked  for  attempting  to  borrow  money  for  the  Queen 
from  the  great  London  merchant,  Sir  Thomas  Cook.  A  shoe- 
maker had  been  tortured  to  death  with  red-hot  pincers  for  abet- 
ting her  correspondence  with  her  allies.  Various  persons  had 
been  racked  for  similar  offences,  but  the  energy  of  Margaret, 
and  the  zeal  of  her  adherents,  were  still  unexhausted  and  uncon- 
quered. 

Either  unconscious  or  contemptuous  of  the  perils  to  which  he 
was  subjected,  the  student,  with  his  silent  companions,  per- 
formed the  voyage,  and  landed  in  sight  of  the  Fortress  Palatine. 


134  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

And  now  Hugh  stopped  before  a  house  of  good  fashion,  knocked 
at  the  door,  which  was  opened  by  an  old  servitor,  disappeared 
for  a  few  moments,  and  returning,  informed  Sibyll,  in  a  mean- 
ing whisper,  that  the  gentlewoman  within  was  a  good  Lancas- 
trian, and  prayed  the  donzell  to  rest  in  her  company  till  Master 
Warner's  return. 

Sibyll,  accordingly,  after  pressing  her  father's  hand  without 
fear,  for  she  had  deemed  the  sole  danger  Adam  risked  was  from 
the  rabble  by  the  way,  followed  Hugh  into  a  fair  chamber, 
strewed  with  rushes,  where  an  aged  dame,  of  noble  air  and 
aspect,  was  employed  at  her  broidery  frame.  This  gentle- 
woman, the  widow  of  a  nobleman  who  had  fallen  in  the  service  of 
Henry,  received  her  graciously,  and  Hugh  then  retired  to  com- 
plete his  commission.  The  student,  the  mule,  the  model,  and 
the  porter,  pursued  their  way  to  the  entrance  of  that  part  of  the 
gloomy  palace  inhabited  by  Henry.  Here  they  were  stopped, 
and  Adam,  after  rummaging  long  in  vain  for  the  chamberlain's 
passport,  at  last  happily  discovered  it,  pinned  to  his  sleeve,  by 
Sibyll's  forethought.  On  this  a  gentleman  was  summoned  to 
inspect  the  order,  and  in  a  few  moments  Adam  was  conducted 
to  the  presence  of  the  illustrious  prisoner. 

"And  what,"  said  a  subaltern  officer,  lolling  by  the  arch- 
way of  the  (now  styled)  "Bloody  Tower,"  hard  by  the  turret 
devoted  to  the  prisoner,*  and  speaking  to  Adam's  guide,  who 
still  mounted  guard  by  the  model — "what  may  be  the  precious 
burden  of  which  thou  art  the  convoy?" 

"Marry,  sir,"  said  Hugh,  who  spoke  in  the  strong  York- 
shire dialect,  which  we  are  obliged  to  render  into  intelligible 
English — "marry,  I  weet  not;  it  is  some  curious  puppet-box, 
or  quaint  contrivance,  that  Master  Warner,  whom  they  say  is  a 
very  deft  and  ingenious  personage,  is  permitted  to  bring  hither 
for  the  Lord  Henry's  diversion." 

"A  puppet-box!"  said  the  officer,  with  much  animated  curi- 
osity. '  'Fore  the  mass!  that  must  be  a  pleasant  sight.  Lift 
the  lid,  fellow!" 

"Please  your  honor,  I  do  not  dare,"  returned  Hugh;  "I 
but  obey  orders." 

"Obey  mine,  then.  Out  of  the  way!"  and  the  officer  lifted 
the  lid  of  the  pannier  with  the  point  of  his  dagger,  and  peered 
within.  He  drew  back,  much  disappointed :  "Holy  Mother!" 
said  he,  "this  seemeth  more  like  an  instrument  of  torture, 
than  a  juggler's  merry  device.  It  looks  parlous  ugly!" 

"Hush!"  said  one  of  the  lazy  bystanders,  with  whom  the 

*  The  Wakefield  Tower. 


THE   LAST   OF    THE   BARONS.  135 

various  gateways  and '  courts  of  the  palace  fortress  were 
crowded,  "hush!  Thy  cap  and  thy  knee,  sir!" 

The  officer  started;  and,  looking  round,  perceived  a  young 
man  of  low  stature,  followed  by  three  or  four  knights  and  no- 
bles, slowly  approaching  towards  the  arch,  and  every  cap  in 
the  vicinity  was  off,  and  every  knee  bowed. 

The  eye  of  this  young  man  was  already  bent  with  a  search- 
ing and  keen  gaze  upon  the  motionless  mule,  standing  patiently 
by  the  Wakefield  Tower;  and  turning  from  the  mule  to  the 
porter,  the  latter  shrunk,  and  grew  pale,  at  that  dark,  steady, 
penetrating  eye,  which  seemed  to  pierce  at  once  into  the 
secrets  and  hearts  of  men. 

"Who  may  this  young  lord  be?"  he  whispered,  to  the  officer. 

"Prince  Richard,  Duke  of  Gloucester,  man,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "Uncover,  varlet!" 

"Surely,"  said  the  Prince,  pausing  by  the  gate,  "surely  this 
is  no  sumpter-mule,  bearing  provisions  to  the  Lord  Henry  of 
Windsor.  It  would  be  but  poor  respect  to  that  noble  person, 
whom,  alas  the  day!  His  Grace  the  King  is  unwillingly  com- 
pelled to  guard  from  the  malicious  designs  of  rebels  and 
mischief-seekers,  that  one  not  bearing  the  King's  livery  should 
attend  to  any  of  the  needful  wants  of  so  worshipful  a  lord  and 
guest ! ' ' 

"My  lord,"  said  the  officer  at  the  gate,  "one  Master  Adam 
Warner  hath  just,  by  permission,  been  conducted  to  the  Lord 
Henry's  presence,  and  the  beast  beareth  some  strange  and 
grim-looking  device  for  my  lord's  diversion." 

The  singular  softness  and  urbanity  which  generally  charac- 
terized the  Duke  of  Gloucester's  tone  and  bearing  at  that  time, 
which,  in  a  court  so  full  of  factions  and  intrigues,  made  him 
the  enemy  of  none,  and  seemingly  the  friend  of  all,  and,  con- 
joined with  abilities  already  universally  acknowledged,  had 
given  to  his  very  boyhood  a  pre-eminence  of  grave  repute  and 
good  opinion,  which,  indeed,  he  retained  till  the  terrible  cir- 
cumstances connected  with  his  accession  to  the  throne,  under 
the  bloody  name  of  Richard  the  Third,  roused  all  men's  hearts 
and  reasons  into  the  persuasion  that  what  before  had  seemed 
virtue  was  but  dissimulation — this  singular  sweetness,  we  say. 
of  manner  and  voice,  had  in  it  nevertheless,  something  that 
imposed,  and  thrilled,  and  awed.  And,  in  truth,  in  our  com- 
mon and  more  vulgar  intercourse  with  life,  we  must  have  ob- 
served, that  where  external  gentleness  of  bearing  is  accompa- 
nied by  a  repute  for  iron  will,  determined  resolution,  and  a 
serious,  profound,  and  all-inquiring  intellect,  it  carries  with  it 


136  THF.    LAST    OB'    THE    BARONS. 

a  majesty  wholly  distinct  from  that  charm  which  is  exercised 
by  one  whose  mildness  of  nature  corresponds  with  the  outward 
humility;  and,  if  it  does  not  convey  the  notion  of  falseness, 
bears  the  appearance  of  that  perfect  self-possession,  that  calm 
repose  of  power,  which  intimidates  those  it  influences  far  more 
than  the  imperious  port  and  the  loud  voice.  And  they  who 
best  knew  the  Duke  knew  also  that,  despite  this  general 
smoothness  of  mien,  his  temperament  was  naturally  irritable, 
quick,  and  subject  to  stormy  gusts  of  passion,  the  which  de- 
fects his  admirers  praised  him  for  laboring  hard  and  sedulously 
to  keep  in  due  control.  Still,  to  a  keen  observer,  the  constitu- 
tional tendencies  of  that  nervous  temperament  were  often  visi- 
ble, even  in  his  blandest  moments — even  when  his  voice  was 
most  musical,  his  smile  most  gracious.  If  something  stung,  or 
excited  him,  an  uneasy  gnawing  of  the  nether  lip,  a  fretful 
playing  with  his  dagger,  drawing  it  up  and  down  from  its 
sheath,*  a  slight  twitching  of  the  muscles  of  the  face,  and  a 
quiver  of  the  eyelid,  betokened  the  efforts  he  made  at  self- 
command;  and  now,  as  his  dark  eyes  rested  upon  Hugh's  pale 
countenance,  and  then  glanced  upon  the  impassive  mule,  doz- 
ing quietly  under  the  weight  of  poor  Adam's  model,  his  hand 
mechanically  sought  his  dagger-hilt,  and  his  face  took  a  sinister 
and  sombre  expression. 
"Thy  name,  friend?" 

"Hugh  Withers,  please  you,  my  lord  Duke." 
"Um!     North  country,  by  thine  accent.     Dost  thou  serve 
u.is  Master  Warner?" 

"No,  my  lord,  I  was  only  hired  with  my  mule  to  carry — " 
"Ah!  true!  to  carry  what  thy  pannier  contains;  open  it. 
Holy  Paul!  a  strange  jonglerie  indeed!  This  Master  Adam 
Warner — methinks,  I  have  heard  his  name — a  learned  man — 
um — let  me  see  his  safe-conduct.  Right — it  is  Lord  Hastings's 
signature."  But  still  the  Prince  held  the  passport,  and  still 
suspiciously  eyed  the  Eureka  and  its  appliances,  which,  in 
their  complicated  and  native  ugliness  of  doors,  wheels,  pipes, 
and  chimney,  were  exposed  to  his  view.  At  this  moment  one 
of  the  attendants  of  Henry  descended  the  stairs  of  the  Wake- 
field  Tower,  with  a  request  that  the  model  might  be  carried  up 
to  divert  the  prisoner. 

Richard  paused  a  moment,  as  the  officer  hesitatingly  watched 
his  countenance  before  giving  the  desired  permission.  But  the 
Prince,  turning  to  him,  and  smoothing  his  brow,  said  mildly: 
"Certes!  all  that  can  divert  the  Lord  Henry  must  be  innocent 

*  Pol.  Virg.  565. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  137 

pastime.  And  I  am  well  pleased  that  he  hath  this  cheerful 
mood  for  recreation.  It  gainsayeth  those  who  would  accuse 
us  of  rigor  in  his  durance.  Yes,  this  warrant  is  complete  and 
formal";  and  the  Prince  returned  the  passport  to  the  officer, 
and  walked  slowly  on  through  that  gloomy  arch  evermore  asso- 
ciated with  Richard  of  Gloucester's  memory,  and  beneath  the 
very  room  in  which  our  belief  yet  holds  that  the  infant  sons  of 
Edward  IV.  breathed  their  last ;  still  as  Gloucester  moved,  he 
turned  and  turned,  and  kept  his  eye  furtively  fixed  upon  the 
porter. 

"Lovell, "  he  said,  to  one  of  the  gentlemen  who  attended 
him,  and  who  was  among  the  few  admitted  to  his  more  pecu- 
liar intimacy — "that  man  is  of  the  north." 

"Well,  my  lord?" 

"The  north  was  always  well  affected  to  the  Lancastrians. 
Master  Warner  hath  been  accused  of  witchcraft.  Marry,  I 
should  like  to  see  his  device — um,  Master  Catesby,  come 
hither — approach,  sir.  Go  back,  and  the  instant  Adam  Warner 
and  his  contrivance  are  dismissed,  bring  them  both  to  me  in  the 
King's  chamber.  Thou  understandest?  We  too  would  see  his 
device — and  let  neither  man  nor  mechanical,  when  once  they 
re-appear,  out  of  thine  eye's  reach.  For  divers  and  subtle 
are  the  contrivances  of  treasonable  men!" 

Catesby  bowed,  and  Richard,  without  speaking  further,  took 
his  way  to  the  royal  apartments,  which  lay  beyond  the  White 
Tower,  towards  the  river,  and  are  long  since  demolished. 

Meanwhile  the  porter,  with  the  aid  of  one  of  the  attendants, 
had  carried  the  model  into  the  chamber  of  the  august  captive. 
Henry,  attired  in  a  loose  robe,  was  pacing  the  room  with  a 
slow  step,  and  his  head  sunk  on  his  bosom,  while  Adam,  with 
much  animation,  was  enlarging  on  the  wonders  of  the  contriv- 
ance he  was  about  to  show  him.  The  chamber  was  commodi- 
ous, and  furnished  with  sufficient  attention  to  the  state  and 
dignity  of  the  prisoner;  for  Edward,  though  savage  and  relent- 
less when  his  blood  was  up,  never  descended  into  the  cool  and 
continuous  cruelty  of  detail. 

The  chamber  may  yet  be  seen;  its  shape  a  spacious  octagon; 
but  the  walls,  now  rude  and  bare,  were  then  painted  and  blaz- 
oned with  scenes  from  the  Old  Testament.  The  door  opened 
beneath  the  pointed  arch  in  the  central  side  (not  where  it  now 
does),  giving  entrance  from  a  small  ante-room,  in  which  the 
visitor  now  beholds  the  receptacle  for  old  rolls  and  papers.  At 
the  right,  on  entering,  where  now,  if  our  memory  mistake  not, 
is  placed  a  press,  stood  the  bed,  quaintly  carved,  and  with 


138  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

hangings  of  damascene.  At  the  farther  end,  the  deep  recess 
which  faced  the  ancient  door  was  fitted  up  as  a  kind  of  oratory. 
And  there,  were  to  oe  seen,  besides  the  crucifix  and  the  mass- 
book,  a  profusion  of  small  vessels  of  gold  and  crystal,  contain- 
ing the  relics,  supposed  or  real,  of  Saint  and  Martyr,  treasures 
which  the  deposed  King  had  collected  in  his  palmier  days,  at 
a  sum  that,  in  the  minds  of  his  followers,  had  been  better  be- 
stowed on  arms  and  war-steeds.  A  young  man  named  Aller- 
ton — one  of  the  three  gentlemen  personally  attached  to  Henry, 
to  whom  Edward  had  permitted  general  access,  and  who  in 
fact  lodged  in  other  apartments  of  the  Wakefield  Tower,  and 
might  be  said  to  share  his  captivity — was  seated  before  a  table, 
and  following  the  steps  of  his  musing  master,  with  earnest  and 
watchful  eyes. 

One  of  the  small  spaniels  employed  in  springing  game — for 
Henry,  despite  his  mildness,  had  been  fond  of  all  the  sports  of 
the  field — lay  curled  round  on  the  floor,  but  started  up,  with 
a  shrill  bark,  at  the  entrance  of  the  bearer  of  the  model,  while  a 
starling,  in  a  cage,  by  the  window,  seemingly  delighted  at  the 
disturbance,  flapped  his  wings,  and  screamed  out:  "Bad  men! 
Bad  world!  Poor  Henry!" 

The  captive  paused  at  that  cry,  and  a  sad  and  patient  smile 
of  inexpressible  melancholy  and  sweetness  hovered  over  his 
lips.  Henry  still  retained  much  of  the  personal  comeliness  he 
possessed  at  the  time  when  Margaret  of  Anjou,  the  theme  of 
minstrel  and  minne-singer,  left  her  native  court  of  poets,  for  the 
fatal  throne  of  England.  But  beauty,  usually  so  popular  and 
precious  a  gift  to  kings,  was  not  in  him  of  that  order  which 
commanded  the  eye  and  moved  the  admiration  of  a  turbulent 
people  and  a  haughty  chivalry.  The  features,  if  regular,  were 
small ;  their  expression  meek  and  timid ;  the  form,  though  tall, 
was  not  firm-knit  and  muscular;  the  lower  limbs  were  too 
thin,  the  body  had  too  much  flesh,  the  delicate  hands  betrayed 
the  sickly  paleness  of  feeble  health;  there  was  a  dreamy  vague- 
ness in  the  clear,  soft  blue  eyes,  and  a  listless  absence  of  all 
energy  in  the  habitual  bend,  the  slow,  heavy,  sauntering 
tread — all  about  that  benevolent  aspect,  that  soft  voice,  that 
resigned  mien,  and  gentle  manner,  spoke  the  exquisite,  unre- 
sisting goodness,  which  provoked  the  lewd  to  taunt,  the  hardy 
to  despise,  the  insolent  to  rebel — for  the  foes  of  a  king  in  stormy 
times  are  often  less  his  vices  than  his  virtues. 

"And  now,  good  my  lord,"  said  Adam,  hastening,  with 
eager  hands,  to  assist  the  bearer  in  depositing  the  model  on 
the  table;  "now  will  I  explain  to  you  the  contrivance,  which 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  139 

it  hath  cost  me  long  years  of  patient  toil  to  shape  from  thought 
into  this  iron  form." 

"But  first,"  said  Allerton,  "were  it  not  well  that  these  good 
people  withdrew?  A  contriver  likes  not  others  to  learn  his 
secret  ere  the  time  hath  come  to  reap  its  profits." 

"Surely — surely!"  said  Adam,  and  alarmed  at  the  idea  thus 
suggested,  he  threw  the  folds  of  his  gown  over  the  model. 

The  attendant  bowed  and  retired:  Hugh  followed  him,  but 
not  till  he  had  exchanged  a  significant  look  with  Allerton. 

As  soon  as  the  room  was  left  clear  to  Adam,  the  captive, 
and  Master  Allerton,  the  last  rose,  and  looking  hastily  round 
the  chamber,  approached  the  mechanician.  "Quick,  sir!" 
said  he,  in  a  whisper,  "we  are  not  often  left  without  witnesses. " 

"Verily,"  said  Adam,  who  had  now  forgotten  kings  and 
stratagems,  plots  and  counterplots,  and  was  all-absorbed  in  his 
invention;  "Verily,  young  man,  hurry  not  in  this  fashion — I 
am  about  to  begin.  Know,  my  lord,"  and  he  turned  to 
Henry,  who,  with  an  indolent,  dreamy  gaze,  stood  contemplat- 
ing the  Eureka;  "know  that,  more  than  a  hundred  years 
before  the  Christian  era,  one  Hero,  an  Alexandrian,  discov- 
ered the  force  produced  by  the  vapor  begot  by  heat  on  water. 
That  this  power  was  not  unknown  to  the  ancient  sages,  witness 
the  contrivances,  not  otherwise  to  be  accounted  for,  of  the 
heathen  oracles;  but  to  our  great  countryman  and  predecessor, 
Roger  Bacon,  who  first  suggested  that  vehicles  might  be  drawn 
without  steeds  or  steers,  and  ships  might — " 

"Marry,  sir,"  interrupted  Allerton,  with  great  impatience, 
"it  is  not  to  prate  to  us  of  such  trivial  fables  of  Man,  or  such 
wanton  sports  of  the  Foul  Fiend,  that  thou  hast  risked  limb 
and  life.  Time  is  precious.  I  have  been  prevised  that  thou 
hast  letters  for  King  Henry;  produce  them — quick!" 

A  deep  glow  of  indignation  had  overspread  the  Enthusiast's 
face  at  the  commencement  of  this  address;  but  the  close  re- 
minded him,  in  truth,  of  his  errand. 

"Hot  youth,"  said  he,  with  dignity,  "a  future  age  may 
judge  differently  of  what  thou  deemest  trivial  fables,  and  may 
rate  high  this  poor  invention  when  the  brawls  of  York  and  Lan- 
caster are  forgotten." 

"Hear  him,"  said  Henry,  with  a  soft  smile,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  young  man,  who  was  about  to 
utter  a  passionate  and  scornful  retort — "Hear  him,  sir.  Have 
I  not  often  and  ever  said  this  same  thing  to  thee?  We  chil- 
dren of  a  day  imagine  our  contests  are  the  sole  things  that  move 
the  world.  Alack!  our  fathers  thought  the  same;  and  they 


140  THE    LAST    OF    T.lf     liARONS. 

and  their  turmoils  sleep  forgotten!  Nay,  Master  Warner"— 
for  here  Adam,  poor  man,  awed  by  Henry's  mildness  into 
shame  at  his  discourteous  vaunting,  began  to  apologize — "nay, 
sir,  nay — thou  art  right  to  contemn  our  bloody  and  futile 
struggles  for  a  crown  of  thorns;  for 

'  Kingdoms  are  but  cares, 

State  is  devoid  of  stay  ; 
Riches  are  ready  snares, 
And  hasten  to  decay.'* 

And  yet,  sir,  believe  me,  thou  hast  no  cause  for  vainglory  in 
thine  own  craft  and  labors ;  for  to  wit  and  to  lere  there  are  the 
same  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit  as  to  war  and  empire. 
Only,  O  would-be  wise  man,  only  when  we  muse  on  Heaven 
do  our  souls  ascend  from  the  Fowler's  snare!" 

"My  saint-like  liege,"  said  Allerton,  bowing  low,  and  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  "thinkest  thou  not  that  thy  very  disdain  of 
thy  rights  makes  thee  more  worthy  of  them?  If  not  for  thine, 
for  thy  son's  sake — remember  that  the  usurper  sits  on  the 
throne  of  the  conqueror  of  Agincourt!  Sir  Clerk,  the  letters." 

Adam,  already  anxious  to  retrieve  the  error  of  his  first  for- 
getfulness,  here,  after  a  moment's  struggle  for  the  necessary 
remembrance,  drew  the  papers  from  the  labyrinthine  recepta- 
cle which  concealed  them;  and  Henry  uttered  an  exclamation 
of  joy,  as,  after  cutting  the  silk,  his  eye  glanced  over  the  writing: 

"My  Margaret!  My  wife!"  Presently  he  grew  pale,  and 
his  hands  trembled !  "Saints  defend  her !  Saints  defend  her ! 
She  is  here,  disguised,  in  London!" 

"Margaret!  Our  hero-queen!  The  manlike  woman!"  ex- 
claimed Allerton,  clasping  his  hands;  "Then  be  sure  that — " 
He  stopped,  and  abruptly  taking  Adam's  arm,  drew  him  aside, 
while  Henry  continued  to  read  "Master  Warner,  we  may  trust 
thee — thou  art  one  of  us — thou  art  sent  here,  I  know,  by  Robin 
of  Redesdale — we  may  trust  thee?" 

"Young  sir,"  replied  the  philosopher  gravely,  "the  fears  and 
hopes  of  power  are  not  amidst  the  uneasier  passions  of  the  stu- 
dent's mind.  I  pledged  myself  but  to  bear  these  papers  hither, 
and  to  return  with  what  may  be  sent  back." 

"But  thou  didst  this  for  love  of  the  cause,  the  truth,  and  the 
right?" 

"I  did  it  partly  from  Hilyard's  tale  of  wrong,  but  partly, 
also,  for  the  gold,"  answered  Adam  simply;  and  kis  noble  air, 

*  Lines  ascribed  to  Henry  VI.,  with  commendation  "  as  a  prettie  verse,"  by  Sir  John 
Harrington,  in  the  "  Nugae  Antiquae."  They  are  also  given,  with  little  alteration,  to  the 
unhappy  King  by  Baldwin,  in  his  tragedy  of  King  Henry  VI, 


THE   X  AST    OF    THE    BARONS.  141 

his  high  brow,  the  serene  calm  of  his  features,  so  contrasted 
the  meanness  implied  in  the  ratter  words  of  his  confession, 
that  Allerton  stared  at  him  amazed,  and  without  reply. 

Meanwhile  Henry  had  concluded  the  letter,  and  with  a 
heavy  sigh  glanced  over  the  papers  that  accompanied  it. 

"Alack!  alack!  more  turbulence,  more  danger,  and  dis- 
quiet— more  of  my  people's  blood!"  He  motioned  to  the 
young  man,  and  drawing  him  to  the  window,  while  Adam  re- 
turned to  his  model,  put  the  papers  in  his  hand.  "Allerton," 
he  said,  "thou  lovest  me,  btu  t.hou  art  one  of  the  few  in  this 
distraught  land  who  love  also  God.  Thou  art  not  one  of  the 
warriors,  the  men  of  steel.  Counsel  me.  See — Margaret  de- 
mands my  signature  to  these  papers ;  the  one,  empowering  and 
craving  the  levy  of  men  and  arms  in  the  northern  counties; 
the  other,  promising  free  pardon  to  all  who  will  desert  Edward; 
the  third — it  seemeth  to  me  more  strange  and  less  kinglike  than 
the  others — undertaking  to  abolish  all  the  imposts  and  all  the 
laws  that  press  upon  the  Commons,  snd  (is  this  a  holy  and 
pious  stipulation?)  to  inquire  into  the  exactions  and  persecu- 
tions of  the  priesthood  of  our  Holy  Church!" 

"Sire ! ' '  said  the  young  man,  after  he  had  hastily  perused  the 
papers,  "my  lady  liege  showeth  good  argument  for  your  assenf 
to  two,  at  least,  of  these  undertakings.  See  the  names  of  fifty 
gentlemen  ready  to  take  arms  in  your  cause  if  authorized  by 
your  royal  warrant.  The  men  of  the  North  are  malcontent 
with  the  usurper,  but  they  will  not  yet  stir,  unless  at  your  owi? 
command.  Such  documents  will,  of  course,  be  used  with  dis- 
cretion, and  not  to  imperil  Your  Grace's  safety." 

"My  safety!"  said  Henry,  with  a  flash  of  his  father's  hero 
soul  in  his  eyes,  "of  that  I  think  not!  If  I  have  small  courage 
to  attack,  I  have  some  fortitude  to  bear !  But,  three  months 
after  these  be  signed,  how  many  brave  hearts  will  be  still ! 
How  many  stout  hands  be  dust!  O  Margaref!  Margaret! 
why  temptest  thou?  Wert  thou  so  happy  when  a.  queen?" 

The  prisoner  broke  from  Allerton's  arm,  and  walked,  in 
great  disorder  and  irresolution,  to  and  fro  the  chamber;  and 
strange  it  was  to  see  the  contrast  between  himself  and  Warner — 
both,  in  so  much  alike,  both  so  purely  creatures  out  of  the 
common  world,  so  gentle,  abstract,  so  utterly  living  in  the  life 
apart :  and  now,  the  student  so  calm,  the  Prince  so  disturbed? 
The  contrast  struck  Henry  himself!  He  paused  abruptly, 
and,  folding  his  arms,  contemplated  the  philosopher,  as  with 
an  affectionate  complacency,  Adam  played  and  toyed,  as  it 
were,  with  his  beloved  model,  now  opening  and  shutting  again 


14^  THE   LAST   OF    THE   BARONS. 

its  doors,  now  brushing  away  with  his  sleeve  some  particles  of 
dust  that  had  settled  on  it,  now  retiring  a  few  paces  to  gaze 
the  better  on  its  stern  symmetry. 

"Oh,  my  Allerton!"  cried  Henry,  "behold!  the  kingdom  a 
man  makes  out  of  his  own  mind  is  the  only  one  that  it  delight- 
eth  man  to  govern !  Behold,  he  is  lord  over  its  springs  and 
movements,  its  wheels  revolve  and  stop  at  his  bidding.  Here, 
here,  alone,  God  never  asketh  the  ruler:  'Why  was  the  blood 
of  thousands  poured  forth  like  water,  that  a  worm  might  wear 
a  crown'  ?" 

"Sire,"  said  Allerton  solemnly,  "when  our  Heavenly  King 
appoints  His  anointed  representative  on  earth,  He  gives  to 
that  human  delegate  no  power  to  resign  the  ambassade  and 
trust.  What  suicide  is  to  a  man,  abdication  is  to  a  king! 
How  canst  thou  dispose  of  thy  son's  rights?  And  what  be- 
come of  those  rights,  if  thou  wilt  prefer  for  him  the  exile,  for 
thyself,  the  prison,  when  one  effort  may  restore  a  throne!" 

Henry  seemed  struck  by  a  tone  of  argument  that  suited 
both  his  own  mind  and  the  reasoning  of  the  age.  He  gazed  a 
moment  on  the  face  of  the  young  man,  muttered  to  himself, 
and  suddenly  moving  to  the  table,  signed  the  papers,  and  re- 
stored them  to  Adam,  who  mechanically  replaced  them  in 
their  iron  hiding-place: 

"Now  begone,  sir!"  whispered  Allerton,  afraid  that  Hen- 
ry's mind  might  again  change. 

"Will  not  my  lord  examine  the  engine?"  asked  Warner 
half-beseechingly. 

"Not  to-day!  See,  he  has  alreadv  retired  to  his  oratory — 
he  is  in  prayer!"  and,  going  to  the  door,  Allerton  summoned 
the  attendants  in  waiting  to  carry  down  the  model. 

"Well,  well — patience,  patience — thou  shall  have  thine  au- 
dience at  last,"  muttered  Adam,  as  he  retired  from  the  room, 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  neglected  infant  of  his  brain. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

HOW,  ON    LEAVING    KING    LOG,  FOOLISH    WISDOM    RUNS    AMUCK 
ON  KING  STORK. 

AT  the  outer  door  of  the  Tower  by  which  he  had  entered, 
the  philosopher  was  accosted  by  Catesby — a  man  who,  in  imita- 
tion of  his  young  patron,  exhibited  the  soft  and  oily  manner 
which  concealed  intense  ambition  and  innate  ferocity 

"Worshipful,  my  master,"  said  he,  bowing  low,  but  with  a 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  143 

half-sneer  on  his  lips,  "the  King  and  his  Highness  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester  have  heard  much  of  your  strange  skill,  and  com- 
mand me  to  lead  you  to  their  presence.  Follow,  sir,  and  you, 
my  men.  convey  this  quaint  contrivance  to  the  King's  apart- 
ments." 

With  this,  not  waiting  for  any  reply,  Catesby  strode  on. 
Hugh's  face  fell ;  he  turned  very  pale,  and,  imagining  himself 
unobserved,  turned  round  to  slink  away.  But  Catesby,  who 
seemed  to  have  eyes  at  the  back  of  his  head,  called  out,  in  a 
mild  tone: 

"Good  fellow,  help  to  bear  the  mechanical — you  too  may  be 
needed." 

"Cog's  wounds!"  muttered  Hugh,  "an'  I  had  but  known 
what  it  was  to  set  my  foot  in  a  King's  palace !  Such  walking 
may  do  for  the  silken  shoon,  but  the  hobnail  always  gets  into 
a  hobble."  With  that,  affecting  a  cheerful  mien,  he  helped  to 
replace  the  model  on  the  mule. 

Meanwhile  Adam,  elated,  poor  man!  at  the  flattery  of  the 
royal  mandate,  persuaded  that  his  fame  had  reached  Edward's 
ears,  and  chafed  at  the  little  heed  paid  by  the  pious  Henry  to 
his  great  work,  stalked  on,  his  head  in  the  air.  "Verily,"  mused 
the  student,  "King  Edward  may  have  been  a  cruel  youth,  and 
over-hasty;  it  is  horrible  to  think  of  Robin  Hilyard's  calami- 
ties! But  men  do  say  he  hath  an  acute  and  masterly  compre- 
hension. Doubtless,  he  will  perceive  at  a  glance  how  much  I 
can  advantage  his  kingdom."  With  this,  we  grieve  to  say, 
selfish  reflection,  which  if  the  thought  of  his  model  could  have 
slept  awhile,  Adam  would  have  blushed  to  recall,  as  an  affront 
to  Hilyard's  wrongs,  the  philosopher  followed  Catesby  across 
the  spacious  yard,  along  a  narrow  passage,  and  up  a  winding 
turret-stair,  to  a  room  in  the  third  story,  which  opened  at  one 
door  into  the  King's  closet,  at  the  other  into  the  spaciou? 
gallery,  which  was  already  a  feature  in  the  plan  of  the  more 
princely  houses.  In  another  minute  Adam  and  his  model 
were  in  the  presence  of  the  King.  The  part  of  the  room  in 
which  Edward  sate  was  distinguished  from  the  rest  by  a  small 
Eastern  carpet  on  the  floor  (a  luxury  more  in  use  in  the  pal- 
aces of  that  day,  than  it  appears  to  have  been  a  century 
later)  ;*  a  table  was  set  before  him,  on  which  the  model  was 
placed.  At  his  right  hand  sat  Jacquetta  Duchess  of  Bedford, 
the  Queen's  mother;  at  his  left,  Prince  Richard.  The  Duch- 
ess, though  not  without  the  remains  of  beauty,  had  a  stern, 
haughty,  scornful  expression,  in  her  sharp  aquiline  features. 

*  See  the  Narrative  of  the  Lord  Grauthuse,  before  referred  to. 


144  THR  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

compressed  lips,  and  imperious  eye.  The  paleness  of  her  com- 
plexion, and  the  careworn,  anxious  lines  of  her  countenance, 
were  ascribed  by  the  vulgar  to  studies  of  no  holy  cast.  Her 
reputation  for  sorcery  and  witchcraft  was  daily  increasing,  and 
served  well  the  purpose  of  the  discontented  barons,  whom  the 
rise  of  her  children  mortified  and  enraged. 

"Approach,  Master — What  say  you  his  name  is,  Richard?" 

"Adam  Warner,"  replied  the  sweet  voice  of  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  "of  excellent  skill  in  the  mathematics." 

"Approach,  sir,  and  show  us  the  nature  of  this  notable  in- 
vention." 

"I  desire  nothing  better,  my  lord  King,"  said  Adam  boldly. 
"But  first  let  me  crave  a  small  modicum  of  fuel.  Fire,  which 
is  the  life  of  the  world,  as  the  wise  of  old  held  it,  is  also  the 
soul  of  this — my  mechanical." 

' '  Peradventure, ' '  whispered  the  Duchess,  ' '  the  wizard  desireth 
to  consume  us!" 

"More  likely,"  replied  Richard,  in  the  same  undertone,  "to 
consume  whatever  of  treasonable  nature  may  lurk  concealed  in 
his  engine." 

"True,"  said  Edward,  and  then,  speaking  aloud,  "Master 
Warner, "  he  added,  "put  thy  puppet  to  its  purpose — without 
fire ;  we  will  it. ' ' 

"It  is  impossible,  my  lord,"  said  Adam,  with  a  lofty  smile. 
"Science  and  nature  are  more  powerful  than  a  king's  word." 

"Do  not  say  that  in  public,  my  friend,"  said  Edward  dryly, 
"or  we  must  hangthee!  .1  would  not  my  subjects  were  told 
anything  so  treasonable.  Howbeit,  to  give  thee  no  excuse  in 
failure,  thou  shalt  have  what  thou  needest." 

"But  surely  not  in  our  presence,"  exclaimed  the  Duchess. 
"This  may  be  a  device  of  the  Lancastrians  for  our  perdition." 

"As  you  please,  belle  nitre,"  said  Edward,  and  he  motioned 
to  a  gentleman,  who  stood  a  few  paces  behind  his  chair,  and 
who,  from  the  entrance  of  the  mechanician,  had  seemed  to  ob- 
serve him  with  intense  interest.  "Master  Nevile,  attend  this 
wise  man;  supply  his  wants,  and  hark,  in  thy  ear,  watch  well 
that  he  abstract  nothing  from  the  womb  of  his  engine;  observe 
what  he  doeth — be  all  eyes."  Marmaduke  bowed  low  to  con- 
ceal his  change  of  countenance,  and,  stepping  forward,  made 
a  sign  to  Adam  to  follow  him. 

"Go  also,  Catesby, "  said  Richard  to  his  follower,  who  had 
taken  his  post  near  him,  "and  clear  the  chamber." 

As  soon  as  the  three  members  of  the  royal  family  were  left 
alone,  the  King,  stretching  himself,  with  a  slight  yawn,  ob. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  145 

served:  "This  man  looks  not  like  a  conspirator,  Brother  Rich- 
ard, though  his  sententiary  as  to  nature  and  science  lacked 
loyalty  and  respect." 

"Sire  and  brother,"  answered  Richard,  "great  leaders  often 
dupe  their  own  tools;  at  least,  meseemeth  that  they  would  rea- 
son well  so  to  do.  Remember,  I  have  told  thee,  that  there  is 
strong  cause  to  suppose  Margaret  to  be  in  London.  In  the 
suburbs  of  the  city  has  also  appeared,  within  the  last  few  weeks, 
that  strange  and  dangerous  person  whose  very  objects  are  a 
mystery,  save  that  he  is  our  foe — Robin  of  Redesdale.  The 
men  of  the  north  have  exhibited  a  spirit  of  insurrection;  a  man 
of  that  country  attends  this  reputed  wizard,  and  he  himself  was 
favored  in  past  times  by  Henry  of  Windsor.  These  are  omi- 
nous signs  when  the  conjunctions  be  considered!" 

"It  is  well  said;  but  a  fair  day  for  breathing  our  palfreys  is 
half-spent!"  returned  the  indolent  Prince.  "By'rLady!  I 
like  the  fashion  of  thy  super-tunic  well,  Richard:  but  thou  hast 
it  too  much  puffed  over  the  shoulders." 

Richard's  dark  eye  shot  fire,  and  he  gnawed  his  lip  as  he 
answered:  "God  hath  not  given  to  me  the  fair  shape  of  my 
kinsmen!" 

"Thy  pardon,  dear  boy,"  said  Edward  kindly;  "yet  little 
needest  thou  our  broad  backs  and  strong  sinews,  for  thou  hast 
a  tongue  to  charm  women,  and  a  wit  to  command  men." 

Richard  bowed  his  face,  little  less  beautiful  than  his  brother's, 
though  wholly  different  from  it  in  feature,  for  Edward  had  the 
long  oval  countenance,  the  fair  hair,  the  rich  coloring,  and  the 
large  outline  of  his  mother,  the  Rose  of  Raby.  Richard,  on 
the  contrary,  had  the  short  face,  the  dark  brown  locks,  and  the 
pale  olive  complexion  of  his  father,  whom  he  alone  of  the 
royal  brothers  strikingly  resembled.*  The  cheeks,  too  were 
somewhat  sunken  and  already,  though  scarcely  past  childhood, 
about  his  lips  were  seen  the  lines  of  thoughtful  manhood.  But 
then  those  small  features,  delicately  aquiline,  were  so  regular; 
that  dark  eye  was  so  deep,  so  fathomless  in  its  bright  musing 
intelligence;  that  quivering  lip  was  at  once  so  beautifully  formed 
and  so  expressive  of  intellectual  subtlety  and  haughty  will;  and 
that  pale  forehead  was  so  massive,  high,  and  majestic,  that 
when,  at  a  later  period,  the  Scottish  prelate  f  commended  Rich- 

*  Pol.  Virg.  544. 

t  Archibald  Quhitlaw. — "  Faciem  mam  summo  imperio  principatu  dignam  inspicit,  quam 
tnoralis  et  heroica,  virtus  illustrat,"  etc. — We  need  scarcely  observe  that  even  a  Scotchman 
would  not  have  risked  a  public  compliment  to  Richard's  face,  if  so  inappropriate  as  to  seem 
a  sarcasm,  especially  as  the  orator  immediately  proceeds  to  notice  the  shortness  of  Richard's 
stature — a  comment  not  likely  to  have  been  peculiarly  acceptable.  In  the  Rous  Roll,  the 
portrait  of  Richard  represents  him  as  undersized,  but  compactly  and  strongly  built,  and 
without  any  sign  of  deformity,  unless  the  inelegant  defect  of  a  short  neck  can  be  so  called. 


146  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

ard's  'princely  countenance,  the  compliment  was  not  one  to  be 
disputed,  much  less  contemned.  But  now  as  he  rose,  obedient 
to  a  whisper  from  the  Duchess,  and  followed  her  to  the  window, 
while  Edward  appeared  engaged  in  admiring  the  shape  of  his 
own  long  upturned  shoes,  those  defects  in  his  shape  which  the 
popular  hatred  and  the  rise  of  the  House  of  Tudor  exaggerated 
into  the  absolute  deformity,  that  the  unexamining  ignorance  of 
modern  days,  and  Shakspeare's  fiery  tragedy,  have  fixed  into 
established  caricature,  were  sufficiently  apparent.  Deformed 
or  hunchbacked  we  need  scarcely  say  he  was  not,  for  no  man 
so  disfigured  could  have  possessed  that  great  personal  strength 
which  he  invariably  exhibited  in  battle,  despite  the  comparative 
slightness  of  his  frame.  He  was  considerably  below  the  ordi- 
nary height,  which  the  great  stature  of  his  brother  rendered  yet 
more  disadvantageous  by  contrast,  but  his  lower  limbs  were 
strong-jointed  and  muscular.  Though  the  back  was  not  curved, 
yet  one  shoulder  was  slightly  higher  than  the  other,  which  was 
the  more  observable  from  the  evident  pains  that  he  took  to  dis- 
guise it,  and  the  gorgeous  splendor,  savoring  of  personal  cox- 
combry,— from  which  no  Plantagenet  was  ever  free — that  he 
exhibited  in  his  dress.  And  as,  in  a  warlike  age,  the  physical 
conformation  of  men  is  always  critically  regarded,  so  this  de- 
fect, and  that  of  his  low  stature,  were  not  so  much  redeemed  as 
they  would  be  in  our  day  by  the  beauty  and  intelligence  of  his 
face.  Added  to  this,  his  neck  was  short,  and  a  habit  of  bend- 
ing his  head  on  his  bosom  (arising  either  from  thought  or  the 
affectation  of  humility,  which  was  a  part  of  his  character),  made 
it  seem  shorter  still.  But  this  peculiarity,  while  taking  from 
the  grace,  added  to  the  strength  of  his  frame,  which,  spare, 
sinewy,  and  compact,  showed  to  an  observer  that  power  of  en- 
durance, that  combination  of  solid  stubbornness  and  active 
energy,  which  at  the  battle  of  Barnet  made  him  no  less  formida- 
ble to  encounter  than  the  ruthless  sword  of  the  mighty  Edward. 

"So,  Prince,"  said  the  Duchess,  "this  new  gentleman  of  the 
King's  is,  it  seems,  a  Nevile.  When  will  Edward's  high  spirit 
cast  off  that  hateful  yoke?" 

Richard  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  The  Duchess,  encour- 
aged by  these  signs  of  sympathy,  continued: 

"Your  brother  Clarence,  Prince  Richard,  despises  us,  to 
cringe  to  the  proud  Earl.  But  you — " 

"I  am  not  suitor  to  the  Lady  Isabel;  Clarence  is  over-lavish, 
and  Isabel  has  a  fair  face  and  a  queenly  dowry." 

"May  I  perish,"  said  the  Duchess,  "ere  Warwick's  daughter 
wears  the  baudekin  of  royalty,  and  sits  in  as  high  a  state  as  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  t47 

Queen's  mother!  Prince,  I  would  fain  confer  with  thee;  we 
have  a  project  to  abase  and  banish  this  hateful  lord.  If  you 
but  join  us,  success  is  sure.  The  Count  of  Charolois — " 

"Dear  lady,"  interrupted  Richard,  with  an  air  of  profound 
humility,  "tell  me  nothing  of  plot  or  project;  my  years  are  too 
few  for  such  high  and  subtle  policy;  and  the  Lord  Warwick 
hath  been  a  leal  friend  to  our  House  of  York." 

The  Duchess  bit  her  lip:  "Yet  I  have  heard  you  tell  Ed- 
ward that  a  subject  can  be  too  powerful?" 

"Never,  lady!  you  have  never  heard  me." 

"Then  Edward  has  told  Elizabeth  that  you  so  spoke." 

"Ah!"  said  Richard,  turning  away  with  a  smile;  "I  see  that 
the  King's  conscience  hath  a  discreet  keeper.  Pardon  me. 
Edward,  now  that  he  hath  sufficiently  surveyed  his  shoon,  must 
marvel  at  this  prolonged  colloquy.  And  see,  the  door  opens." 

With  this,  the  Duke  slowly  moved  to  the  table,  and  resumed 
his  seat. 

Marmaduke,  full  of  fear  for  his  ancient  host,  had  in  vain 
sought  an  opportunity  to  address  a  few  words  of  exhortation  to 
him  to  forbear  all  necromancy,  and  to  abstain  from  all  perilous 
distinctions  between  the  power  of  Edward  IV.  and  that  of  his 
damnable  Nature  and  Science ;  but  Catesby  watched  him  with 
so  feline  a  vigilance,  that  he  was  unable  to  slip  in  more  than: 
"Ah,  Master  Warner,  for  our  blessed  Lord's  sake,  recollect 
that  rack  and  cord  are  more  than  mere  words  here!"  To  the 
which  pleasant  remark,  Adam,  then  busy  in  filling  his  miniature 
boiler,  only  replied  by  a  wistful  stare,  not  in  the  least  recogniz- 
ing the  Nevile  in  his  fine  attire,  and  the  new-fashioned  mode 
of  dressing  his  long  hair. 

But  Catesby  watched  in  vain  for  the  abstraction  of  any  trea- 
sonable contents  in  the  engine,  which  the  Duke  of  Gloucester 
had  so  shrewdly  suspected.  The  truth  must  be  told.  Adam  had 
entirely  forgotten  that  in  the  intricacies  of  his  mechanical  lurked 
the  papers  that  might  overthrow  a  throne!  Magnificent  Incar- 
nation was  he  (in  that  oblivion)  of  Science  itself,  which  cares 
not  a  jot  for  men  and  nations,  in  their  ephemeral  existences; 
which  only  remembers  THINGS — things  that  endure  forages; 
and  in  its  stupendous  calculations  loses  sight  of  the  unit  of  a 
generation!  No;  he  had  thoroughly  forgotten  Henry,  Edward, 
his  own  limbs  and  life — not  only  York  and  Lancaster,  but  Adam 
Warner  and  the  rack.  Grand  in  his  forgetfulness,  he  stood 
before  the  tiger  and  the  tiger-cat — Edward  and  Richard — a  Pure 
Thought — a  Man's  Soul ;  Science  fearless  in  the  presence  of 
Cruelty,  Tyranny,  Craft,  and  Power. 


148  THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

In  truth,  now  that  Adam  was  thoroughly  in  his  own  sphere — 
was  in  the  domain  of  which  he  was  king,  and  those  beings  in 
velvet  and  ermine  were  but  as  ignorant  savages  admitted  to  the 
frontier  of  his  realm,  his  form  seemed  to  dilate  into  a  majesty 
the  beholders  had  not  before  recognized.  And  even  the  lazy 
Edward  muttered  involuntarily:  "By  my  halidame,  the  man 
has  a  noble  presence!" 

"I  am  prepared  now,  sire,"  said  Adam  loftily,  "to  show  to 
my  King  and  to  his  court,  that,  unnoticed  and  obscure,  in  study 
md  retreat,  often  live  those  men  whom  kings  may  be  proud  to 
call  their  subjects.  Will  it  please  you,  my  lords,  this  way!" 
and  he  motioned  so  commandingly  to  the  room  in  which  he  had 
left  the  Eureka,  that  his  audience  rose  by  a  common  impulse, 
and  in  another  minute  stood  grouped  round  the  model  in  the 
adjoining  chamber.  This  really  wonderful  invention — so  won- 
derful, indeed,  that  it  will  surpass  the  faith  of  those  who  do  not 
pause  to  consider  what  vast  forestalments  of  modern  science  have 
been  made  and  lost  in  the  darkness  of  ages  not  fitted  to  receive 
them — was,  doubtless,  in  many  important  details  not  yet  adapted 
for  the  practical  uses  to  which  Adam  designed  its  application. 
But  as  a  mere  model,  as  a  marvellous  essay,  for  the  suggestion 
of  gigantic  results,  it  was,  perhaps,  to  the  full  as  effective  as  the 
ingenuity  of  a  mechanic  of  our  own  day  could  construct.  It  is 
true  that  it  was  crowded  with  unnecessary  cylinders,  slides,  cocks 
and  wheels — hideous  and  clumsy  to  the  eye — but  through  this 
intricacy  the  great  simple  design  accomplished  its  main  object. 
It  contrived  to  show  what  force  and  skill  man  can  obtain  from 
the  alliance  of  nature;  the  more  clearly,  inasmuch  as  the  mech- 
anism affixed  to  it,  still  more  ingenious  than  itself,  was  well 
calculated  to  illustrate  practically  one  of  the  many  uses  to  which 
the"  principle  was  destined  to  be  applied. 

Adam  had  not  yet  fathomed  the  secret  by  which  to  supply 
the  miniature  cylinder  with  sufficient  steam  for  any  prolonged 
effect;  the  great  truth  of  latent  heat  was  unknown  to  him;  but 
he  had  contrived  to  regulate  the  supply  of  water  so  as  to  make 
the  engine  discharge  its  duties  sufficiently  for  the  satisfaction  of 
curiosity,  and  the  explanation  of  its  objects.  And  now  this 
strange  thing  of  iron  was  in  full  life.  From  its  serpent-chimney 
issued  the  thick,  rapid  smoke,  and  the  groan  of  its  travail  was 
heard  within. 

"And  what  propose  you  to  yourself  and  to  the  kingdom,  in 
all  this,  Master  Adam?"  asked  Edward  curiously,  bending 
his  tall  person  over  the  tortured  iron. 

"I  propose  to  make  Nature  the -laborer  of  man,"  answered 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  149 

Warner.  "When  I  was  a  child  of  some  eight  years  old,  I  ob- 
served that  water  swelleth  into  vapor  when  fire  is  applied  to  it. 
Twelve  years  afterwards,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  I  observed  that 
while  undergoing  this  change,  it  exerts  a  mighty  mechani- 
cal force.  At  twenty-five,  constantly  musing,  I  said:  'Why 
should  not  that  force  become  subject  to  man's  art?'  I  then 
began  the  first  rude  model,  of  which  this  is  the  descendant.  I 
noticed  that  the  vapor  so  produced  is  elastic — that  is,  that  as  it 
expands,  it  presses  against  what  opposes  it;  it  has  a  force  ap- 
plicable everywhere  force  is  needed  by  man's  labor.  Behold  a 
second  agency  of  gigantic  resources.  And  then,  still  studying 
this,  I  perceived  that  the  vapor  thus  produced  can  be  re-con- 
verted into  water,  shrinking  necessarily  while  so  retransformed, 
from  the  space  it  filled  as  vapor,  and  leaving  that  space  a  vacu- 
um. But  Nature  abhors  a  vacuum — produce  a  vacuum,  and  the 
bodies  that  surround  rush  into  it.  Thus  the  vapor  again,  while 
changing  back  into  water,  becomes  also  a  force — our  agent. 
And  all  the  while  these  truths  were  shaping  themselves  to  my 
mind,  I  was  devising  and  improving  also  the  material  form  by 
which  I  might  render  them  useful  to  man — so  at  last,  out  of 
these  truths,  arose  this  invention!" 

"Pardie, "  said  Edward,  with  the  haste  natural  to  royalty, 
"what  in  common  there  can  be  between  thy  jargon  of  smoke 
and  water  and  this  huge  ugliness  of  iron,  passeth  all  understand- 
ing. But  spare  us  thy  speeches,  and  on  to  thy  puppet-show." 

Adam  stared  a  moment  at  the  King,  in  the  surprise  that 
one  full  of  his  subject  feels  when  he  sees  it  impossible  to  make 
another  understand  it,  sighed,  shook  his  head,  and  prepared  to 
begin. 

"Observe,"  he  said,  "that  there  is  no  juggling,  no  deceit.  I 
will  place  in  this  deposit  this  small  lump  of  brass — would  the 
size  of  this  toy  would  admit  of  larger  experiment !  I  will  then 
pray  ye  to  note,  as  I  open  door  after  door,  how  the  metal  passes 
through  various  changes,  all  operated  by  this  one  agency  of 
vapor.  Heed  and  attend.  And  if  the  crowning  work  please 
thee,  think,  great  King,  what  such  an  agency  upon  the  large 
scale  would  be  to  thee :  think  how  it  would  multiply  all  arts, 
and  lessen  all  labor;  think  that  thou  hast,  in  this,  achieved  for 
a  whole  people  the  true  philosopher's  stone.  Now,  note!" 

He  placed  the  rough  ore  in  its  receptacle,  and  suddenly  it 
seemed  seized  by  a  vise  within,  and  vanished.  He  proceeded, 
then,  while  dexterously  attending  to  the  complex  movements,  to 
open  door  after  door,  to  show  the  astonished  spectators  the 
rapid  transitions  the  metal  underwent,  and  suddenly,  in  the 


150  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

midst  of  his  pride,  he  stopped  short,  for,  like  a  lightning  flash, 
came  across  his  mind  the  remembrance  of  the  fatal  papers. 
Within  the  next  door  he  was  to  open,  they  lay  concealed.  His 
change  of  countenance  did  not  escape  Richard,  and  he  noted 
the  door  which  Adam  forebore  to  open,  as  the  student  hurriedly, 
and  with  some  presence  of  mind,  passed  to  the  next,  in  which 
the  metal  was  shortly  to  appear. 

"Open  this  door,"  said  the  Prince,  pointing  to  the  handle. 

"No! — forbear!  There  is  danger! — forbear!"  exclaimed  the 
mechanician. 

"Danger  to  thine  own  neck,  varlet  and  impostor!"  exclaimed 
the  Duke ;  and  he  was  about  himself  to  open  the  door,  when 
suddenly  a  loud  roar — a  terrific  explosion  was  heard.  Alas! 
Adam  Warner  had  not  yet  discovered  for  his  engine  what  we 
now  call  the  safety-valve.  The  steam  contained  in  the  minia- 
ture boiler  had  acquired  an  undue  pressure;  Adam's  attention 
had  been  too  much  engrossed  to  notice  the  signs  of  the  grow- 
ing increase,  and  the  rest  may  be  easily  conceived.  Nothing 
could  equal  the  stupor  and  horror  of  the  spectators  at  this  ex- 
plosion, save  only  the  boy-duke,  who  remained  immovable,  and 
still  frowning.  All  rushed  to  the  door,  huddling  one  on  the 
other,  scarcely  knowing  what  next  was  to  befall  them ;  but  cer- 
tain that  the  wizard  was  bent  upon  their  destruction.  Edward 
was  the  first  to  recover  himself:  and  seeing  that  no  lives  were 
lost,  his  first  impulse  was  that  of  ungovernable  rage. 

"Foul  traitor!"  he  exclaimed,  "was it  for  this  that  thou  hast 
pretended  to  beguile  us  with  thy  damnable  sorceries !  Seize 
him!  Away  to  the  Tower  Hill!  and  let  the  priest  patter  an 
ave,  while  the  doomsman  knots  the- rope. " 

Not  a  hand  stirred;  even  Catesby  would  as  lief  have  touched 
the  King's  lion  before  meals,  as  that  poor  mechanician,  stand- 
ing aghast,  and  unheeding  all,  beside  his  mutilated  engine. 

"Master  Nevile,"  said  the  King  sternly,  "dost  thou  hear  us?" 

"Verily,"  muttered  the  Nevile,  approaching  very  slowly,  "I 
knew  what  would  happen;  but  to  lay  hands  on  my  host,  an*  he 
were  fifty  times  a  wizard — No!  My  liege,"  he  said,  in  a  firm 
tone,  but  falling  on  his  knee,  and  his  gallant  countenance  pale 
with  generous  terror — "My  liege,  forgive  me.  This  man  suc- 
cored me  when  struck  down  and  wounded  by  a  Lancastrian 
ruffian — this  man  gave  me  shelter,  food,  and  healing.  Com- 
mand me  not,  O  gracious  my  lord,  to  aid  in  taking  the  life  of 
one  to  whom  I  owe  my  own." 

"His  life!"  exclaimed  the  Duchess  of  Bedford — "the  life  of 
this  most  illustrious  person!  Sire,  you  do  not  dream  it!" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  151 

"Heh!  by  the  saints,  what  now?"  cried  the  King,  whose 
choler,  though  fierce  and  ruthless,  was  as  short-lived  as  the 
passions  of  the  indolent  usually  are,  and  whom  the  earnest  in- 
terposition of  his  mother-in-law  much  surprised  and  diverted. 
"If,  fair  belle  mere,  thou  thinkest  it  so  illustrious  a  deed  to 
frighten  us  out  of  our  mortal  senses,  and  narrowly  to  'scape 
sending  us  across  the  river  like  a  bevy  of  balls  from  a  bombard, 
there  is  no  disputing  of  tastes.  Rise  up,  Master  Nevile,  we 
esteem  thee  not  less  for  thy  boldness ;  ever  be  the  host  and  the 
benefactor  revered  by  English  gentleman  and  Christian  youth. 
Master  Warner  may  go  free." 

Here  Warner  uttered  so  deep  and  hollow  a  groan,  that  it 
startled  all  present. 

"Twenty-five  years  of  labor,  and  not  to  have  seen  this!" 
he  ejaculated.  "Twenty  and  five  years,  and  all  wasted!  How 
repair  this  disaster — O  fatal  day!" 

"What  says  he?     What  means  he?"  said  Jacquetta. 

"Come  home! — home!"  said  Marmaduke,  approaching  the 
philosopher,  in  great  alarm  lest  he  should  once  more  jeopardize 
his  life.  But  Adam,  shaking  him  off,  began  eagerly,  and  with 
tremulous  hands,  to  examine  the  machine,  and  not  perceiving 
any  mode  by  which  to  guard  in  future  against  a  danger  that  he 
saw  at  once  would,  if  not  removed,  render  his  invention  useless, 
tottered  to  a  chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"He  seemeth  mightily  grieved  that  our  bones  are  still 
whole!"  muttered  Edward.  "And  why,  belle  mere  mine, 
wouldst  thou  protect  this  pleasant  tregetour  ?  " 

"What!"  said  the  Duchess — "see  you  not  that  a  man  capa- 
ble of  such  devices  must  be  of  doughty  service  against  our 
foes?" 

"Not  I — how?" 

"Why,  if  merely  to  signify  his  displeasure  at  our  young  Rich- 
ard's overcurious  meddling,  he  can  cause  this  strange  engine  to 
shake  the  walls — nay,  to  destroy  itself,  think  what  he  might  do 
were  his  power  and  malice  at  our  disposing.  I  know  something 
of  these  nigromancers." 

"And  would  you  knew  less!  for  already  the  Commons  mur- 
mur at  your  favor  to  them.  But  be  it  as  you  will.  And  now — 
ho  there! — let  our  steeds  be  caparisoned." 

"You  forget,  sire,"  said  Richard,  who  had  hitherto  silently 
watched  the  various  parties,  "the  object  for  which  we  summoned 
this  worthy  man.  Please  you  now,  sir,  to  open  that  door." 

"No — no!"  exclaimed  the  King  hastily,  "I  will  have  no 
more  provoking  the  foul  fiend — conspirator  or  not,  I  have  had 


I$2  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

enough  of  Master  Warner.  Pah !  My  poor  placard  is  turned 
lampblack.  Sweet  mother-in-law,  take  him  under  thy  protec- 
tion; and  Richard,  come  with  me." 

So  saying,  the  King  linked  his  arm  in  that  of  the  reluctant 
Gloucester,  and  quitted  the  room.  The  Duchess  then  or- 
dered the  rest  also  to  depart,  and  was  left  alone  with  the  crest- 
fallen philosopher. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

MY  LADY  DUCHESS'S  OPINION  OF  THE  UTILITY  OF  MASTER 
WARNER'S  INVENTION,  AND  HER  ESTEEM  FOR  ITS — EXPLO- 
SION! 

ADAM,  utterly  unheeding,  or  rather  deaf  to,  the  discussion 
that  had  taken  place,  and  his  narrow  escape  from  cord  and 
gibbet,  lifted  his  head  peevishly  from  his  bosom,  as  the  Duch- 
ess rested  her  hand  almost  caressingly  on  his  shoulder,  and 
thus  addressed  him : 

"Most  puissant  sir,  think  not  that  I  am  one  of  those,  who, 
in  their  ignorance  and  folly,  slight  the  mysteries  of  which  thou 
art  clearly  so  great  a  master.  When  I  heard  thee  speak  of  sub- 
jecting Nature  to  Man,  I  at  once  comprehended  thee,  and 
blushed  for  the  dulness  of  my  kindred." 

"Ah!  lady,  thou  hast  studied,  then,  the  mathematics.  Alack! 
this  is  a  grievous  blow ;  but  it  is  no  inherent  fault  in  the  device. 
I  am  clearly  of  mind  that  it  can  be  remedied.  But  oh !  what 
time — what  thought — what  sleepless  nights — what  gold  will  be 
needed!" 

"Give  me  thy  sleepless  nights  and  thy  grand  thoughts,  and 
thou  shalt  not  want  gold." 

"Lady,"  cried  Adam,  starting  to  his  feet,  "do  I  hear  aright? 
Art  thou,  in  truth,  the  patron  I  have  so  long  dreamed  of? 
Hast  thou  the  brain  and  the  heart  to  aid  the  pursuits  of 
science?" 

"Ay!  and  the  power  to  protect  the  students!  Sage,  lam 
the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  whom  men  accuse  of  witchcraft — as 
thee  of  wizardry.  From  the  wife  of  a  private  gentleman,  I 
have  become  che  mother  of  a  queen.  I  stand  amidst  a  court 
full  of  foes;  I  desire  gold  to  corrupt,  and  wisdom  to  guard 
against,  and  means  to  destroy,  them.  And  I  seek  all  these  in 
men  like  thee!" 

Adam  turned  on  her  his  bewildered  eyes,  and  made  no 
answer. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  153 

"They  tell  me,"  said  the  Duchess,  "that  Henry  of  Windsor 
employed  learned  men  to  transmute  the  baser  metals  into  gold. 
Wert  thou  one  of  them?" 

"No." 

"Thou  knowest  that  art?" 

"I  studied  it  in  my  youth,  but  the  ingredients  of  the  cruci- 
ble were  too  costly." 

"Thou  shalt  not  lack  them  with  me;  thoK  knowest  the  lore 
of  the  stars,  and  canst  foretell  the  designs  of  enemies — the 
hour  whether  to  act  or  to  forbear?" 

"Astrology  I  have  studied,  but  that  also  was  in  youth,  for 
there  dwelleth  in  the  pure  mathematics  that  have  led  me  to 
this  invention — " 

"Truce  with  that  invention,  whatever  it  be — think  of  it  no 
more,  it  has  served  its  end  in  the  explosion,  which  proved  thy 
power  of  mischief — high  objects  are  now  before  thee.  Wilt 
thou  be  of  my  household,  one  of  my  alchemists  and  astrolo- 
gers? Thou  shalt  have  leisure,  honor,  and  all  the  moneys  thou 
canst  need." 

"Moneys!"  said  Adam  eagerly,  and  casting  his  eyes  upon 
the  mangled  model ;  "Well,  I  agree— what  you  will — alchem- 
ist, astrologist,  wizard — what  you  will.  This  shall  all  be  re- 
paired— all — I  begin  to  see  now — ah!  I  begin  to  see — yes,  if 
a  pipe  by  which  the  too  excessive  vapor  would — ay,  ay! — 
right,  right,"  and  he  rubbed  his  hands. 

Jacquetta  was  struck  with  his  enthusiasm:  "But  surely,  Mas- 
ter Warner,  this  has  some  virtue  you  have  not  vouchsafed  to 
explain;  confide  in  me — can  it  change  iron  to  gold?" 

'No— but— " 

'Can  it  predict  the  future?" 
'No— but— " 
'Can  it  prolong  life?" 
'No— but— " 

'Then  in  God's  name  let  us  waste  no  more  time  about  it!" 
said  the  Duchess  impatiently — "your  art  is  mine  now.  Ho, 
there !  I  will  send  my  page  to  conduct  thee  to  thy  apartments, 
and  thou  shalt  lodge  next  to  Friar  Bungey,  a  man  of  wondrous 
lere,  Master  Warner,  and  a  worthy  confrere  in  thy  researches. 
Hast  thou  any  one  of  kith  and  kin  at  home,  to  whom  thou  wilt 
announce  thy  advancement?" 

"Ah,  lady!  Heaven  forgive  me,  I  have  a  daughter — an 
only  child — my  Sibyll,  I  cannot  leave  her  alone,  and — " 

"Well,  nothing  should  distract  thy  cares  from  thine  art — she 
shall  be  sent  for.  I  will  rank  her  amongst  my  maidens.  Fare 


154  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

thee  well,  Master  Warner!  At  night  I  will  send  for  thee,  and 
appoint  the  tasks  I  would  have  thee  accomplish." 

So  saying,  the  Duchess  quitted  the  room,  and  left  Adam 
alone,  bending  over  his  model  in  deep  revery. 

From  this  absorption  it  was  the  poor  man's  fate  to  be  again 
aroused. 

The  peculiar  character  of  the  boy-prince  of  Gloucester  was 
that  of  one  who,  having  once  seized  upon  an  object,  never  will- 
ingly relinquished  it.  First  he  crept  and  slid,  and  coiled 
around  it  as  a  snake.  But  if  craft  failed,  his  passion,  roused 
by  resistance,  sprang  at  his  prey  with  a  lion's  leap:  and  who- 
ever examines  the  career  of  this  extraordinary  personage  will 
perceive  that,  whatever  might  be  his  habitual  hypocrisy,  he 
seemed  to  lose  sight  of  it  wholly,  when  once  resolved  upon 
force.  Then  the  naked  ferocity  with  which  the  destructive 
propensity  swept  away  the  objects  in  his  path  becomes  fearfully 
and  startlingly  apparent,  and  offers  a  strange  contrast  to  the 
wily  duplicity  with  which,  in  calmer  moments,  he  seems  to  have 
sought  to  coax  the  victim  into  his  folds.  Firmly  convinced 
that  Adam's  engine  had  been  made  the  medium  of  dangerous 
nnd  treasonable  correspondence  with  the  royal  prisoner,  and  of 
that  suspicious,  restless,  feverish  temperament,  which  never 
slept  when  a  fear  was  wakened,  a  doubt  conceived,  he  had 
broke  from  his  brother,  whose  more  open  valor  and  less  un- 
quiet intellect  were  ever  willing  to  leave  the  crown  defended 
but  by  the  gibbet  for  the  detected  traitor,  the  sword  for  the 
declared  foe;  and  obtaining  Edward's  permission  "to  inquire 
further  into  these  strange  matters,"  he  sent  at  once  for  the 
porter  who  had  conveyed  the  model  to  the  Tower;  but  that 
suspicious  accomplice  was  gone.  The  sound  of  the  explosion 
of  the  engine  had  no  less  startled  the  guard  below  than  the 
spectators  above.  Releasing  their  hold  of  their  prisoner,  they 
had,  some  taken  fairly  to  their  heels,  others  rushed  into  the 
palace  to  learn  what  mischief  had  ensued;  and  Hugh,  with  the 
quick  discretion  of  his  north  country,  had  not  lost  so  favorable 
an  opportunity  for  escape.  There  stood  the  dozing  mule  at 
the  door  below,  but  the  guide  was  vanished.  More  confirmed 
in  his  suspicions  by  this  disappearance  of  Adam's  companion, 
Richard,  giving  some  preparatory  orders  to  Catesby,  turned  at 
once  to  the  room  which  still  held  the  philosopher  and  his  de- 
vice. He  closed  the  door  on  entering,  and  his  brow  was  dark 
and  sinister  as  he  approached  the  musing  inmate.  But  here  we 
must  return  to  Sibyll. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  155 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  OLD  WOMAN  TALKS  OF  SORROWS — THE  YOUNG  WOMAN 
DREAMS  OF  LOVE — THE  COURTIER  FLIES  FROM  PRESENT 
POWER  TO  REMEMBRANCES  OF  PAST  HOPES — AND  THE 
WORLD-BETTERER  OPENS  UTOPIA,  WITH  A  VIEW  OF  THE 
GIBBET  FOR  THE  SILLY  SAGE  HE  HAS  SEDUCED  INTO 
HIS  SCHEMES — SO,  EVER  AND  EVERMORE,  RUNS  THE 
WORLD  AWAY! 

THE  old  lady  looked  up  from  her  embroidery-frame  as  Sibyll 
sate  musing  on  a  stool  before  her ;  she  scanned  the  maiden 
with  a  wistful  and  somewhat  melancholy  eye. 

"Fair  girl,"  she  said,  breaking  a  silence  that  had  lasted  for 
some  moments,  "it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  seen  thy  face 
before.  Wert  thou  never  in  Queen  Margaret's  court?" 

"In  childhood,  yes,  lady." 

"Do  you  not  remember  me,  the  Dame  of  Longueville?" 

Sibyll  started  in  surprise,  and  gazed  long  before  she  recog- 
nized the  features  of  her  hostess ;  for  the  Dame  of  Longueville 
had  been  still,  when  Sibyll  was  a  child  at  the  court,  renowned 
for  matronly  beauty,  and  the  change  was  greater  than  the  lapse 
of  years  could  account  for.  The  lady  smiled  sadly:  "Yes, 
you  marvel  to  see  me  thus  bent  and  faded.  Maiden,  I  lost  my 
husband  at  the  battle  of  St.  Alban's,  and  my  three  sons  in  the 
field  of  Touton.  My  lands  and  my  wealth  have  been  confis- 
cated to  enrich  new  men;  and  to  one  of  them — one  of  the  ene- 
mies of  the  only  king  whom  Alice  de  Longueville  will  ac- 
knowledge— I  owe  the  food  for  my  board,  and  the  roof  for  my 
head.  Do  you  marvel  now  that  I  am  so  changed?" 

Sibyll  rose  and  kissed  the  lady's  hand,  and  the  tear  that 
sparkled  on  its  surface  was  her  only  answer. 

"I  learn,"  said  the  Dame  of  Longueville,  "that  your  father 
has  an  order  from  the  Lord  Hastings  to  see  King  Henry.  I 
trust  that  he  will  rest  here  as  he  returns,  to  tell  me  how  the 
monarch-saint  bears  his  afflictions.  But  I  know:  his  example 
should  console  us  all."  She  paused  a  moment,  and  resumed: 
"Sees  your  father  much  of  the  Lord  Hastings?" 

"He  never  saw  him  that  I  weet  of,"  answered  Sibyll,  blush- 
ing; "the  order  was  given,  but  as  of  usual  form  to  a  learned 
scholar." 

"But  given  to  whom?"  persisted  the  lady. 

"To — to  me,"  replied  Sibyll  falteringly. 


156  THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

The  Dame  of  Longueville  smiled. 

"Ah!  Hastings  could  scarcely  say  no  to  a  prayer  from  such 
rosy  lips.  But  let  me  not  imply  aught  to  disparage  his  humane 
and  gracious  heart.  To  Lord  Hastings,  next  to  God  and  His 
saints,  I  owe  all  that  is  left  to  me  on  earth.  Strange,  that  he 
is  not  yet  here.  This  is  the  usual  day  and  hour  on  which  he 
comes,  from  pomp  and  pleasurement,  to  visit  the  lonely 
widow."  And  pleased  to  find  an  attentive  listener  to  her 
grateful  loquacity,  the  dame  then  proceeded,  with  warm  eulo- 
gies upon  her  protector,  to  inform  Sibyll  that  her  husband  had, 
in  the  first  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  chanced  to  capture 
Hastings,  and,  moved  by  his  valor  and  youth,  and  some  old 
connections  with  his  father,  Sir  Leonard  had  favored  his  es- 
cape from  the  certain  death  that  awaited  him  from  the  wrath 
of  the  relentless  Margaret.  After  the  field  of  Touton,  Hast- 
ings had  accepted  one  of  the  manors  confiscated  from  the 
attainted  House  of  Longueville,  solely  that  he  might  restore  it 
to  the  widow  of  the  fallen  lord;  and,  with  a  chivalrous  consid- 
eration, not  contented  with  beneficence,  he  omitted  no  occasion 
to  show  to  the  noblewoman  whatever  homage  and  respect 
might  soothe  the  pride  which,  in  the  poverty  of  those  who 
have  been  great,  becomes  disease.  The  loyalty  of  the  Lady 
Longueville  was  carried  to  a  sentiment  most  rare  in  that  day, 
and  rather  resembling  the  devotion  inspired  by  the  later 
Stuarts.  She  made  her  home  within  the  precincts  of  the 
Tower,  that,  morning  and  eve,  when  Henry  opened  his  lattice 
to  greet  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun,  she  might  catch  a  dim 
and  distant  glance  of  the  captive  King,  or  animate,  by  that  sad 
sight,  the  hopes  and  courage  of  the  Lancastrian  emissaries,  to 
whom,  fearless  of  danger,  she  scrupled  not  to  give  counsel, 
and,  at  need,  asylum. 

While  Sibyll,  with  enchanted  sense,  was  listening  to  the 
praise  of  Hastings,  a  low  knock  at  the  door  was  succeeded  by 
the  entrance  of  that  nobleman  himself.  Not  to  Elizabeth,  in 
the  alcoves  of  Shene,  or  on  the  dais  of  the  palace  hall,  did  the 
graceful  courtier  bend  with  more  respectful  reverence  than  to 
the  powerless  widow,  whose  very  bread  was  his  alms,  for  the 
true  high-breeding  of  chivalry  exists  not  without  delicacy  of 
feeling,  formed  originally  by  warmth  of  heart;  and  though  the 
warmth  may  lose  its  glow,  the  delicacy  endures,  as  the  steel, 
that  acquires  through  heat  its  polish,  retains  its  lustre,  even 
when  the  shine  but  betrays  the  hardness. 

"And  how  fares  my  noble  lady  of  Longueville?  But  need  I 
ask?  for  her  cheek  still  wears  the  rose  of  Lancaster.  A  com- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  157 

panion?  Ha!  Mistress  Warner,  I  learn  now  how  much  pleas- 
ure exists  in  surprise!" 

"My  young  visitor,"  said  the  dame,  "is  but  an  old  friend; 
she  was  one  of  the  child-maidens  reared  at  the  court  of  Queen 
Margaret. ' ' 

"In  sooth!'  exclaimed  Hastings,  and  then,  in  an  altered 
tone,  he  added:  "but  I  should  have  guessed  so  much  grace 
had  not  come  all  from  nature.  And  your  father  has  gone  to 
see  the  Lord  Henry,  and  you  rest,  here,  his  return?  Ah, 
noble  lady !  may  you  harbor  always  such  innocent  Lan- 
castrians. ' ' 

The  fascination  of  this  eminent  person's  voice  and  manner 
was  such,  that  it  soon  restored  Sibyll  to  the  ease  she  had  lost 
at  his  sudden  entrance.  He  conversed  gayly  with  the  old 
dame  upon  such  matters  of  court  anecdote  as  in  all  the  changes 
of  state  were  still  welcome  to  one  so  long  accustomed  to  court 
air;  but  from  time  to  time  he  addressed  himself  to  Sibyll,  and 
provoked  replies  which  startled  herself — for  she  was  not  yet 
well  aware  of  her  own  gifts — by  their  spirit  and  intelligence. 

"You  do  not  tell  us,"  said  the  Lady  Longueville  sarcasti- 
cally, "of  the  happy  spousailles  of  Elizabeth's  brother  with  the 
Duchess  of  Norfolk — a  bachelor  of  twenty,  a  bride  of  some 
eighty-two.*  Verily,  these  alliances  are  new  things  in  the  his- 
tory of  English  royalty.  But  when  Edward,  who,  even  if  not 
a  rightful  king,  is  at  least  a  born  Plantagenet,  condescended  to 
marry  Mistress  Elizabeth,  a  born  Woodville,  scarce  of  good 
gentleman's  blood,  nought  else  seems  strange  enough  to  pro- 
voke marvel." 

"As  to  the  last  matter,"  returned  Hastings  gravely, 
"though  Her  Grace  the  Queen  be  no  warm  friend  tome,  I 
must  needs  become  her  champion  and  the  King's.  The  lady 
who  refused  the  dishonoring  suit  of  the  fairest  prince  and  the 
boldest  knight  in  the  Christian  world,  thereby  made  herself 
worthy  of  the  suit  that  honored  her;  it  was  not  Elizabeth 
Woodville  alone  that  won  the  purple.  On  the  day  she  mounted 
a  throne,  the  chastity  of  woman  herself  was  crowned." 

"What!"  said  the  Lady  Longueville  angrily,  "mean  you  to 
say  that  there  is  no  disgrace  in  the  mal-alliance  of  kite  and  fal- 
con— of  Plantagenet  and  Woodville — of  high-born  and  mud- 
descended?" 

"You  forget,  lady,  that  the  widow  of  Henry  the  Fifth, 
Katharine  of  Valois,  a  king's  daughter,  married  the  Welch  sol- 

*  The  old  chronicler  justly  calls  this  a  "diabolical  marriage."  It  greatly  roused  the 
wrath  of  the  nobles,  and  indeed  of  all  honorable  men,  as  a  proof  of  the  shameless  avarice 
of  the  Queen's  family 


158  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

dier,  Owen  Tudor;  that  all  England  teems  with  brave  men 
born  from  similar  spousailles,  where  love  has  levelled  all  dis- 
tinctions, and  made  a  purer  hearth,  and  raised  a  bolder  off- 
spring, than  the  lukewarm  likings  of  hearts  that  beat  but  for 
lands  and  gold.  Wherefore,  lady,  appeal  not  to  me,  a  squire  of 
dames,  a  believer  in  the  old  Parliament  of  Love ;  whoever  is 
fair  and  chaste,  gentle  and  loving,  is,  in  the  eyes  of  William 
De  Hastings,  the  mate  and  equal  of  a  king!" 

Sibyll  turned  involuntarily  as  the  courtier  spoke  thus,  with 
animation  in  his  voice,  and  fire  in  his  eyes;  she  turned,  and 
her  breath  came  quick — she  turned,  and  her  look  met  his,  and 
those  words  and  that  look  sank  deep  into  her  heart;  they 
called  forth  brilliant  and  ambitious  dreams ;  they  rooted  the 
growing  love,  but  they  aided  to  make  it  holy ;  they  gave  to  the 
delicious  fancy  what  before  it  had  not  paused,  on  its  wing,  to 
sigh  for ;  they  gave  it  that  without  which  all  fancy,  sooner  or 
later,  dies ;  they  gave  it  that  which,  once  received  in  a  noble 
heart,  is  the  excuse  for  untiring  faith;  they  gave  it — HOPE! 

"And  thou  wouldst  say,"  replied  the  lady  of  Longueville, 
with  a  meaning  smile,  still  more  emphatically — "thou  wouldst 
say  that  a  youth,  brave  and  well  nurtured,  ambitious  and  lov- 
ing, ought,  in  the  eyes  of  rank  and  pride,  to  be  the  mate  and 
equal  of — " 

"Ah,  noble  df.me,"  interrupted  Hastings  quickly;  "I  must 
not  prolong  encounter  with  so  sharp  a  wit.  Let  me  leave  that 
answer  to  this  fair  maiden,  for,  by  rights,  it  is  a  challenge  to 
her  sex,  not  to  mine." 

"How  say  you,  then,  Mistress  Warner?"  said  the  dame. 
"Suppose  a  young  heiress  of  the  loftiest  birth,  of  the  broadest 
lands,  of  the  comeliest  form — suppose  her  wooed  by  a  gentle- 
man, poor  and  stationless,  but  with  a  mighty  soul,  born  to 
achieve  greatness,  would  she  lower  herself  by  hearkening  to 
his  suit?" 

"A  maiden,  methinks, ''  answered  Sibyll,  with  reluctant  but 
charming  hesitation,  "cannot  love  truly,  if  she  love  unworthily; 
and  if  she  love  worthily,  it  is  not  rank  nor  wealth  she  loves." 

"But  her  parents,  sweet  mistress,  may  deem  differently;  and 
should  not  her  love  refuse  submission  to  their  tyranny?"  asked 
Hastings. 

"Nay,  good  my  lord,  nay,"  returned  Sibyll,  shaking  her 
head  with  thoughtful  demureness.  "Surely  the  wooer,  if  he 
love  worthily,  will  not  press  her  to  the  curse  of  a  child's  dis- 
obedience and  a  parent's  wrath!" 

"Shrewdly  answered,"  said  the  dame  of  Longueville. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  159 

"Then  she  would  renounce  the  poor  gentleman  if  the  par- 
ent ordain  her  to  marry  a  rich  lord.  Ah,  you  hesitate,  for  a 
woman's  ambition  is  pleased  with  the  excuse  of  a  child's 
obedience." 

Hastings  said  this  so  bitterly,  that  Sibyll  could  not  but  per- 
ceive that  some  personal  feeling  gave  significance  to  his  words. 
Yet  how  could  they  be  applied  to  him — to  one  now  in  rank 
and  repute  equal  to  the  highest  below  the  throne? 

"If  the  demoiselle  should  so  choose,"  said  the  dame  of  Lon- 
gueville, "it  seemeth  to  me  that  the  rejected  suitor  might  find 
it  facile  to  disdain  and  to  forget." 

Hastings  made  no  reply ;  but  that  remarkable  and  deep  shade 
of  melancholy  which  sometimes  in  his  gayest  hours  startled 
those  who  beheld  it,  and  which  had  perhaps  induced  many  of 
the  prophecies  that  circulated,  as  to  the  untimely  and  violent 
death  that  should  close  his  bright  career,  gathered  like  a  cloud 
over  his  brow.  At  this  moment  the  door  opened  gently,  and 
Robert  Hilyard  stood  at  the  aperture.  He  was  clad  in  the 
dress  of  a  friar,  but  the  raised  cowl  showed  his  features  to  the 
lady  of  Longueville,  to  whom  alone  he  was  visible ;  and  those 
bold  features  were  literally  haggard  with  agitation  and  alarm. 
He  lifted  his  finger  to  his  lips,  and  motioning  the  lady  to  follow 
him,  closed  the  door. 

The  dame  of  Longueville  rose,  and  praying  her  visitors  to 
excuse  her  absence  for  a  few  moments,  she  left  Hastings  and 
Sibyll  to  themselves. 

"Lady,"  said  Hilyard,  in  a  hollow  whisper  as  soon  as  the 
dame  appeared  in  the  low  hall,  communicating  on  one  hand 
with  the  room  just  left,  on  the  other  with  the  street,  "I 
fear  all  will  be  detected.  Hush !  Adam  and  the  iron  coffer 
that  contains  the  precious  papers  have  been  conducted  to  Ed- 
ward's presence.  A  terrible  explosion,  possibly  connected 
with  the  contrivance,  caused  such  confusion  among  the  guards, 
that  Hugh  escaped  to  scare  me  with  his  news.  Stationed  near 
the  gate  in  this  disguise,  I  ventured  to  enter  the  court-yard, 
and  saw — saw — the  TORMENTOR! — the  torturer — the  hideous, 
masked  minister  of  agony,  led  towards  the  chambers  in  which 
our  hapless  messenger  is  examined  by  the  ruthless  tyrants. 
Gloucester,  the  lynx-eyed  mannikin,  is  there!" 

"O  Margaret,  my  Queen!"  exclaimed  the  lady  of  Longue- 
ville, "the  papers  will  reveal  her  whereabout." 

"No — she  is  safe,"  returned  Hilyard;  "but  thy  poor  scholar, 
I  tremble  for  him,  and  for  the  heads  of  all  whom  the  papers 
name." 


l6o  TI1K    LAST    OK    TMK    I!  A  RONS. 

"What  can  be  done!  Ha!  Lord  Hastings  is  here — he  is 
ever  humane  and  pitiful.  Dare  we  confide  in  him?" 

A  bright  gleam  shot  over  Hilyard's  face.  "Yes — yes;  let 
me  confer  with  him  alone.  I  wait  him  here — quick!" 

The  lady  hastened  back.  Hastings  was  conversing  in  a  low 
voice  with  Sibyll.  The  dame  of  Longueville  whispered  in  the 
courtier's  ear,  drew  him  into  the  hall,  and  left  him  alone  with 
the  false  friar,  who  had  drawn  the  cowl  over  his  face. 

"Lord  Hastings,"  said  Hilyard,  speaking  rapidly,  "you  are 
in  danger,  if  not  of  loss  of  life,  of  loss  of  favor.  You  gave  a 
passport  to  one  Warner  to  see  the  ex-King  Henry.  Warner's 
simplicity  (for  he  is  innocent)  hath  been  duped;  he  is  made 
the  bearer  of  secret  intelligence  from  the  unhappy  gentlemen 
who  still  cling  to  the  Lancaster  cause.  He  is  suspected ;  he  is 
examined ;  he  may  be  questioned  by  the  torture.  If  the  trea- 
son be  discovered,  it  was  thy  hand  that  signed  the  passport — 
the  Queen,  thou  knowest,  hates  thee — the  Woodvilles  thirst  for 
thy  downfall.  What  handle  may  this  give  them!  Fly,  my 
lord — fly  to  the  Tower — thou  mayst  yet  be  in  time ;  thy  wit 
can  screen  -all  that  may  otherwise  be  bare.  Save  this  poor 
scholar;  conceal  this  correspondence.  Hark  ye,  lord!  frown 
not  so  haughtily — that  correspondence  names  thee  as  one  who 
has  taken  the  gold  of  Count  Charolois,  and  whom,  therefore, 
King  Louis  may  outbuy.  Look  to  thyself!" 

A  slight  blush  passed  over  the  pale  brow  of  the  great  states- 
man, but  he  answered  with  a  steady  voice:  "Friar,  or  layman, 
I  care  not  which;  the  gold  of  the  heir  of  Burgundy  was  a  gift, 
not  a  bribe.  But  I  need  no  threats  to  save,  if  not  too  late,  from 
rack  and  gibbet,  the  life  of  a  guiltless  man.  I  am  gone. 
Hold!  Bid  the  maiden,  the  scholar's  daughter,  follow  me  to 
the  Tower." 

CHAPTER  IX. 

HOW    THE    DESTRUCTIVE     ORGAN    OF    PRINCE     RICHARD     PROM- 
ISES   GOODLY    DEVELOPMENT. 

THE  Duke  of  Gloucester  approached  Adam  as  he  stood  gaz- 
ing on  his  model.  "Old  man,"  said  the  Prince,  touching  him 
with  the  point  of  his  sheathed  dagger,  "look  up,  and  answer. 
What  converse  hast  thou  held  with  Henry  of  Windsor,  and  who 
commissioned  thee  to  visit  him  in  his  confinement?  Speak, 
and  the  truth!  for,  by  Holy  Paul!  I  am  one  who  can  detect  a 
lie,  and  without  that  door  stands — the  Tormentor!" 

Upon  a  pleasing  and  joyous  dream  broke  these  harsh  words ; 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  l6l 

for  Adam  then  was  full  of  the  contrivance  by  which  to  repair 
the  defect  of  the  engine ;  and  with  this  suggestion  was  blent 
confusedly  the  thought  that  he  was  now  protected  by  royalty; 
that  he  should  have  means  and  leisure  to  accomplish  his  great 
design ;  that  he  should  have  friends  whose  power  could  obtain 
its  adoption  by  the  King.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and  that  young 
dark  face  frowned  upon  him — the  child  menacing  the  sage — 
brute  force  in  a  pigmy  shape,  having  authority  of  life  and  death 
over  the  giant  strength  of  genius.  But  these  words,  which  re- 
called Warner  from  his  existence  as  philosopher,  woke  that  of 
the  gentle,  but  brave  and  honorable  man  which  he  was,  when 
reduced  to  earth. 

"Sir,"  he  said  gravely,  "If  I  have  consented  to  hold  con- 
verse with  the  unhappy,  it  was  not  as  the  tell-tale  and  the 
espier.  I  had  formal  warrant  for  my  visit,  and  I  was  solicited 
to  render  it  by  an  early  friend  and  comrade  who  sought  to  be 
my  benefactor  in  aiding  with  gold  my  poor  studies  for  the 
King's  people." 

"Tut!"  said  Richard  impatiently,  and  playing  with  his 
dagger  hilt,  "thy  words,  stealthy  and  evasive,  prove  thy  guilt! 
Sure  am  I  that  this  iron  traitor,  with  its  intricate  hollows  and 
recesses,  holds  what,  unless  confessed,  will  give  thee  to  the 
hangman!  Confess  all,  and  thou  art  spared." 

"If,"  said  Adam  mildly,  "your  Highness — for  though  I 
know  not  your  quality,  I  opine  that  no  one  less  than  royal 
could  so  menace ;  if  your  Highness  imagines  that  I  have  been 
entrusted  by  a  fallen  man,  wrong  me  not  by  supposing  that  I 
could  fear  death  more  than  dishonor;  forcertes!"  (continued 
Adam,  with  innocent  pedantry)  "to  put  the  case  scholasti- 
cally,  and  in  the  logic  familiar,  doubtless,  to  Your  Highness, 
either  I  have  something  to  confess,  or  I  have  not;  if  I  have — " 

"Hound!"  interrupted  the  Prince,  stamping  his  foot, 
"thinkest  thou  to  banter  me — see!"  As  his  foot  shook  the 
floor,  the  door  opened,  and  a  man  with  his  arms  bare,  covered 
from  head  to  foot  in  a  black  gown  of  serge,  with  his  features 
concealed  by  a  hideous  mask,  stood  ominously  at  the  aperture. 

The  Prince  motioned  to  the  torturer  (or  tormentor,  as  he 
was  technically  styled)  to  approach,  which  he  did  noiselessly, 
till  he  stood,  tall,  grim,  and  lowering,  beside  Adam,  like  some 
silent  and  devouring  monster  by  its  prey. 

"Dost  thou  repent  thy  contumacy?  A  moment,  and  I  ren- 
der my  questioning  to  another!" 

"Sir,"  said  Adam,  drawing  himself  up,  and  with  so  sudden 
a  change  of  mien  that  his  loftiness  almost  awed  even  the  daunt- 


*l  THE    LAST    OK    THE    15ARONS. 

less  Richard;  "Sir,  my  fathers  feared  not  death  when  they 
did  battle  for  the  throne  of  England;  and  why?  Because  in 
their  loyal  valor  they  placed  not  the  interests  of  a  mortal  man, 
but  the  cause  of  imperishable  honor!  And  though  their  son 
be  a  poor  scholar,  and  wears  not  the  spurs  of  gold ;  though  his 
frame  be  weak  and  his  hairs  gray,  he  loveth  honor  also  well  eno' 
to  look  without  dread  on  death!" 

Fierce  and  ruthless,  when  irritated  and  opposed,  as  the 
Prince  was,  he  was  still  in  his  first  youth — ambition  had  here 
no  motive  to  harden  him  into  stone.  He  was  naturally  so  brave 
himself  that  bravery  could  not  fail  to  win  from  him  something 
of  respect  and  sympathy,  and  he  was  taken  wholly  by  surprise 
in  hearing  the  language  of  a  knight  and  hero  from  one  whom 
he  had  regarded  but  as  the  artful  impostor  or  the  despicable 
intriguer. 

He  changed  countenance  as  Warner  spoke,  and  remained  a 
moment  silent.  Then  as  a  thought  occurred  to  him,  at  which 
his  features  relaxed  into  a  half-smile,  he  beckoned  to  the  tor- 
mentor, said  a  word  in  his  ear,  and  the  horrible  intruder 
nodded  and  withdrew. 

"Master  Warner, "  then  said  the  Prince,  in  his  customary 
sweet  and  gliding  tones,  "it  were  a  pity  that  so  gallant  a  gentle- 
man should  be  exposed  to  peril  for  adhesion  to  a  cause  that 
can  never  prosper,  and  that  would  be  fatal,  could  it  prosper,  to 
our  common  country.  For  look  you,  this  Margaret,  who  is 
now,  we  believe,  in  London  (here  he  examined  Adam's  counte- 
nance, which  evinced  surprise) — this  Margaret,  who  is  seeking 
to  rekindle  the  brand  and  brennen  of  civil  war,  has  already 
sold  for  base  gold  to  the  enemy  of  the  realm,  to  Louis  XL, 
that  very  Calais  which  your  fathers,  doubtless,  lavished  their 
blood  to  annex  to  our  possessions.  Shame  on  the  lewd  harlot! 
What  worn  an  so  bloody  and  so  dissolute?  What  man  so  feeble 
and  craven  as  her  lord?" 

"Alas!  sir,"  said  Adam,  "I  am  unfitted  for  these  high  con- 
siderations of  state.  I  live  but  for  my  art,  and  in  it.  And 
now,  behold  how  my  kingdom  is  shaken  and  rent!"  he  pointed 
with  so  touching  a  smile,  and  so  simple  a  sadness,  to  the  broken 
engine,  that  Richard  was  moved. 

"Thou  lovest  this,  thy  toy?  I  can  comprehend  that  love  for 
some  dumb  thing  that  we  have  toiled  for.  Ay!"  continued 
the  Prince  thoughtfully — "ayj  I  have  noted  myself  in  life,  that 
there  are  objects,  senseless  as  that  mould  of  iron,  which,  if  we 
labor  at  them,  wind  round  our  hearts  as  if  they  were  flesh  and 
blood,  So  some  men  love  learning,  others  glory,  others  power, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  163 

Well,  man,   thou  lovest  that  mechanical?     How  many  years 
hast  thou  been  about   it?" 

"From  the  first  to  the  last,  twenty-five  years,  and  it  is  still 
incomplete." 

"Um!"  said  the  Prince,  smiling,  "Master  Warner,  thou  hast 
read  of  the  judgment  of  Solomon — how  the  wise  King  dis- 
covered the  truth  by  ordering  the  child's  death." 

"It  was  indeed,"  said  Adam  unsuspectingly,  "amost  shrewd 
suggestion  of  native  wit  and  clerkly  wisdom." 

"Glad  am  I  thou  approvest  it,  Master  Warner,"  said  Richard. 
And  as  he  spoke  the  tormentor  re-appeared  with  a  smith,  armed 
with  the  implements  of  his  trade. 

"Good  smith,  break  into  pieces  this  stubborn  iron;  bare  all 
its  receptacles;  leave  not  one  fragment  standing  on  the  other! 
Delenda  est  tua  Carthago^  Master  Warner.  There  is  Latin  in 
answer  to  thy  logic." 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  any  notion  of  the  terror,  the  rage, 
the  despair,  which  seized  upon  the  unhappy  sage  when  these 
words  smote  his  ear,  and  he  saw  the  smith's  brawny  arms  swing 
on  high  the  ponderous  hammer.  He  flung  himself  between  the 
murderous  stroke  and  his  beloved  model.  He  embraced  the 
grim  iron  tightly.  "Kill  me/"  he  exclaimed  sublimely,  "kill 
me !• — not  my  THOUGHT!" 

"Solomon  was  verily  and  indeed  a  wise  king,"  said  the 
Duke,  with  a  low,  inward  laugh.  '  'And  now,  man,  I  have 
thee!  To  save  thy  infant — thine  art's  hideous  infant — con- 
fess the  whole!" 

It  was  then  that  a  fierce  struggle  evidently  took  place  in 
Adam's  bosom.  It  was,  perhaps — O  reader!  thou,  whom  pleas- 
ure, love,  ambition,  hatred,  avarice,  in  thine  and  our  ordinary 
existence,  tempt — it  was,  perhaps,  to  him  the  one  arch-tempta- 
tion of  a  life.  In  the  changing  countenance,  the  heaving  breast, 
the  trembling  lip,  the  eyes  that  closed  and  opened  to  close 
again,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  unworthy  weakness — yea,  in  the 
whole  physical  man — was  seen  the  crisis  of  the  moral  struggle. 
And  what,  in  truth,  to  him,  an  Edward  or  a  Henry,  a  Lancas- 
ter or  a  York?  Nothing.  But  still  that  instinct,  that  princi- 
ple, that  conscience,  ever  strongest  in  those  whose  eyes  are 
accustomed  to  the  search  of  truth,  prevailed.  So  he  rose  sud- 
denly and  quietly,  drew  himself  apart,  left  his  work  to  the  De- 
stroyer, and  said : 

"Prince,  thou  art  a  boy!  Let  a  boy's  voice  annihilate  that 
which  should  have  served  all  time.  Strike!" 

Richard  motioned — the  hammer  descended — the  engine  and 


104  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

its  appurtenances  reeled  and  crashed — the  doors  flew  open — 
the  wheels  rattled — the  sparks  flew.  And  Adam  Warner  fell 
to  the  ground,  as  if  the  blow  had  broken  his  own  heart.  Little 
heeding  the  insensible  victim  of  his  hard  and  cunning  policy, 
Richard  advanced  to  the  inspection  of  the  interior  recesses  of 
the  machinery.  But  that  which  promised  Adam's  destruction 
saved  him.  The  heavy  stroke  had  battered  in  the  receptacle 
of  the  documents ;  had  buried  them  in  the  layers  of  iron.  The 
faithful  Eureka,  even  amidst  its  injuries  and  wrecks,  preserved 
the  secret  of  its  master. 

The  Prince,  with  impatient  hands,  explored  all  the  apertures 
yet  revealed,  and  after  wasting  many  minutes  in  a  fruitless 
search,  was  about  to  bid  the  smith  complete  the  work  of  destruc- 
tion, when  the  door  suddenly  opened  and  Lord  Hastings 
entered.  His  quick  eye  took  in  the  whole  scene;  he  arrested 
the  lifted  arm  of  the  smith,  and  passing  deliberately  to  Glou- 
cester, said  with  a  profound  reverence,  but  a  half-reproachful 
smile:  "My  lord!  my  lord!  Your  Highness  is  indeed  severe 
upon  my  poor  scholar." 

"Canst  thou  answer  for  thy  scholar's  loyalty?"  said  the 
Duke  gloomily. 

Hastings  drew  the  Prince  aside,  and  said,  in  a  low  tone : 
"His  loyalty!  poor  man,  I  know  not;  but  his  guilelessness, 
surely,  yes.  Look  you,  sweet  Prince,  I  know  the  interest  thou 
hast  in  keeping  well  with  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  whom  I,  in 
sooth,  have  slight  cause  to  love.  Thou  hast  trusted  me  with 
thy  young  hopes  of  the  Lady  Anne;  this  new  Nevile  placed 
about  the  King,  and  whose  fortunes  Warwick  hath  made  his 
care,  hath,  I  have  reason  to  think,  some  love-passages  with  the 
scholar's  daughter — the  daughter  came  to  me  for  the  passport. 
Shall  this  Marmaduke  Nevile  have  it  to  say  to  his  fair  kins- 
woman, with  the  unforgiving  malice  of  a  lover's  memory,  that 
the  princely  Gloucester  stooped  to  be  the  torturer  of  yon  poor 
old  man?  If  there  be  treason  in  the  scholar,  or  in  yon  bat- 
tered craft-work,  leave  the  search  to  me." 

The  Duke  raised  his  dark,  penetrating  eyes  to  those  of  Hast- 
ings, which  did  not  quail.  For  here  world-genius  encountered 
world-genius,  and  art,  art. 

"Thine  argument  hath  more  subtlety  and  circumlocution 
than  suit  with  simple  truth,"  said  the  Prince,  smiling.  "But 
it  is  enough  to  Richard  that  Hastings  wills  protection  even  to 
a  spy ! ' ' 

Hastings  kissed  the  Duke's  hand  in  silence,  and  going  to  the 
door,  he  disappeared  a  moment  and  returned  with  Sibyll.  As 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  165 

she  entered,  pale  and  trembling,  Adam  rose,  and  the  girl  with 
a  wild  cry  flew  to  his  bosom. 

"It  is  a  winsome  face,  Hastings,"  said  the  Duke  dryly.  "I 
pity  Master  Nevile  the  lover,  and  envy  my  Lord  Chamberlain 
the  protector." 

Hastings  laughed,  for  he  was  well  pleased  that  Richard's 
suspicion  took  that  turn. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  Master  Nevile  and  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford's  page  may  enter.  Your  guard  stopped 
them  hitherto.  They  come  for  this  gentleman  from  Her  High- 
ness the  Queen's  mother." 

"Enter,  Master  Nevile,  and  you  Sir  Page.  What  is  your 
errand?" 

"My  lady,  the  Duchess,"  said  the  page,  "has  sent  me  to 
conduct  Master  Warner  to  the  apartments  prepared  for  him  as 
her  special  multiplier  and  alchemist." 

"What!"  said  the  Prince,  who,  unlike  the  irritable  Clarence, 
made  it  his  policy  to  show  all  decorous  homage  to  the  Queen's 
kin;  "hath  that  illustrious  lady  taken  this  gentleman  into  her 
service?  Why  announced  you  not,  Master  Warner,  what  at 
once  had  saved  you  from  further  questioning?  Lord  Hastings, 
I  thank  you  now  for  your  intercession." 

Hastings,  in  answer,  pointed  archly  at  Marmaduke,  who  was 
aiding  Sibyll  to  support  her  father.  "Do  you  suspect  me  still, 
Prince?"  he  whispered. 

The  Duke  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  Adam,  breaking  from 
Marmaduke  and  Sibyll,  passed  with  tottering  steps  to  the 
shattered  labor  of  his  solitary  life.  He  looked  at  the  ruin  with 
mournful  despondence,  with  quivering  lips.  "Have  you  done 
with  me?"  then  he  said,  bowing  his  head  lowlily,  for  his  pride 
was  gone — "may  we — that  is,  I  and  this,  my  poor  device,  with- 
draw from  your  palace?  I  see  we  are  not  fit  for  kings!" 

"Say  not  so,"  said  the  young  Duke  gently,  "we  have  now 
convinced  ourselves  of  our  error,  and  I  crave  thy  pardon,  Mas- 
ter Warner,  for  my  harsh  dealings.  As  for  this,  thy  toy,  the 
King's  workmen  shall  set  it  right  for  thee.  Smith,  call  the  fel- 
lows yonder,  to  help  bear  this  to—"  He  paused  and  glanced 
at  Hastings. 

"To  my  apartments, "said  the  chamberlain.  "Your  High- 
ness may  be  sure  that  I  will  there  inspect  it.  Fear  not,  Master 
Warner;  no  further  harm  shall  chance  to  thy  contrivance." 

"Come,  sir,  forgive  me,"  said  the  Duke.  With  gracious  affa- 
bility the  young  Prince  held  out  his  hand,  the  fingers  of  which 
sparkled  with  costly  gems,  to  the  old  man.  The  old  man  bowed 


166  THE    LAST    OF    THE    I'.AkoXS. 

as  if  his  beard  would  have  swept  the  earth,  but  he  did  not  touch 
the  hand.  He  seemed  still  in  a  state  between  dream  and  rea- 
son, life  and  death :  he  moved  not,  spoke  not,  till  the  men  came 
to  bear  the  model;  and  he  then  followed  it,  his  arms  folded  in 
his  gown,  till,  on  entering  the  court,  it  was  borne  in  a  contrary 
direction  from  his  own,  to  the  chamberlain's  apartment;  then 
wistfully  pursuing  it  with  his  eyes,  he  uttered  such  a  sigh  as 
might  have  come  from  a  resigned  father  losing  the  last  glimpse 
of  a  beloved  son. 

Richard  hesitated  a  moment,  loth  to  relinquish  his  research, 
and  doubtful  whether  to  follow  the  Eureka  for  renewed  investi- 
gation ;  but,  partly  unwilling  to  compromise  his  dignity  in  the 
eyes  of  Hastings,  should  his  suspicions  prove  unfounded,  and 
partly  indisposed  to  risk  the  displeasure  of  the  vindictive 
Duchess  of  Bedford  by  further  molestation  of  one  now  under 
her  protection,  he  reluctantly  trusted  all  further  inquiry  to  the 
well-known  loyalty  of  Hastings. 

"If  Margaret  be  in  London,"  he  muttered  to  himself  as  he 
turned  slowly  away,  "now  is  the  time  to  seize  and  chain  the 
lioness!  Ho,  Catesby, — hither  (a  valuable  man  that  Catesby — 
a  lawyer's  nurturing  with  a  bloodhound's  nature!) — Catesby, 
while  King  Edward  rides  for  pleasure,  let  thou  and  I  track  the 
scent  of  his  foes.  If  the  she-wolf  of  Anjou  hath  ventured  hither, 
she  hides  in  some  convent  or  monastery,  be  sure.  See  to  our 
palfreys,  Catesby!  Strange  (added  the  Prince,  muttering  to 
himself)  that  I  am  more  restless  to  guard  the  crown  than  he 
who  wears  it!  Nay,  a  crown  is  a  goodly  heirloom  in  a  man's 
family,  and  a  fair  sight  to  see  near — and  near — and  near — " 

The  Prince  abruptly  paused,  opened  and  shut  his  right  hand 
convulsively,  and  drew  a  long  sigh. 


BOOK   IV. 

INTRIGUES   OF    THE   COURT    OF    EDWARD    IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

MARGARET  OF  ANJOU. 

THE  day  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  last  section  of  this 
narrative,  and  about  the  hour  of  noon,  Robert  Hilyard  (still  in 
the  reverend  disguise  in  which  he  had  accosted  Hastings)  bent 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  $67 

his  way  through  the  labyrinth  of  alleys  that  wound  in  dingy 
confusion  from  the  Chepe  towards  the  river. 

The  purlieus  of  the  Thames,  in  that  day  of  ineffective  police, 
sheltered  many  who  either  lived  upon  plunder,  or  sought  abodes 
that  proffered,  at  alarm,  the  facility  of  flight.  Here,  saunter- 
ing in  twos  or  threes,  or  lazily  reclined  by  the  thresholds  of 
plaster  huts,  might  be  seen  that  refuse  population  which  is  the 
unholy  offspring  of  Civil  War — disbanded  soldiers  of  either 
Rose,  too  inured  to  violence  and  strife  for  peaceful  employ- 
ment, and  ready  for  any  enterprise  by  which  keen  steel  wins 
bright  gold.  At  length,  our  friend  stopped  before  the  gate  of 
a  small  house,  on  the  very  marge  of  the  river,  which  belonged 
to  one  of  the  many  religious  Orders  then  existing;  but  from  its 
site  and  aspect  denoted  the  poverty  seldom  their  characteristic. 
Here  he  knocked :  the  door  was  opened  by  a  lay-brother ;  a 
sign  and  a  smile  were  interchanged,  and  the  visitor  was  ushered 
into  a  room  belonging  to  the  Superior,  but  given  up  for  the 
last  few  days  to  a  foreign  priest,  to  whom  the  whole  community 
appeared  to  consider  the  reverence  of  a  saint  was  due.  And 
yet  this  priest,  who,  seated  alone,  by  a  casement  which  com- 
manded a  partial  view  of  the  distant  Tower  of  London,  received 
the  conspirator,  was  clad  in  the  humblest  serge.  His  face  was 
smooth  and  delicate;  and  the  animation  of  the  aspect,  the 
vehement  impatience  of  the  gesture,  evinced  little  of  the  holy 
calm  that  should  belong  to  those  who  have  relinquished  the 
affairs  of  earth  for  meditation  on  the  things  of  heaven.  To  this 
personage  the  sturdy  Hilyard  bowed  his  manly  knees;  and 
casting  himself  at  the  priest's  feet,  his  eyes,  his  countenance 
changed  from  their  customary  hardihood  and  recklessness  into 
an  expression  at  once  of  reverence  and  of  pity. 

"Well,  man — well,  friend — good  friend,  tried  and  leal  friend — 
speak!  speak!"  exclaimed  the  priest,  in  an  accent  that  plainly 
revealed  a  foreign  birth. 

"Oh,  gracious  lady,  all  hope  is  over:  I  come  but  to  bid 
you  fly.  Adam  Warner  was  brought  before  the  usurper:  he  es- 
caped, indeed,  the  torture,  and  was  faithful  to  the  trust.  But 
the  papers — the  secret  of  the  rising — are  in  the  hands  of  Hast- 
ings." 

"How  long,  O  Lord,"  said  Margaret  of  Anjou,  for  she  it 
was,  under  that  reverend  disguise;  "how  long  wilt  thou  delay 
the  hour  of  triumph  and  revenge?" 

The  Princess,  as  she  spoke,  had  suffered  her  hood  to  fall 
back,  and  her  pale,  commanding  countenance,  so  well  fitted  to 
express  fiery  and  terrible  emotion,  wore  that  aspect  in  which 


l68  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

many  a  sentenced  man  had  read  his  doom ;  an  aspect  the  more 
fearful,  inasmuch  as  the  passion  that  pervaded  it  did  not  dis- 
tort the  features,  but  left  them  locked,  rigid,  and  marble-like 
in  beauty,  as  the  head  of  the  Medusa. 

"The  day  will  dawn  at  last,"  said  Hilyard,  "but  the  judg- 
ments of  Heaven  are  slow.  We  are  favored,  at  the  least,  that 
our  secret  is  confined  to  a  man  more  merciful  than  his  tribe." 
He  then  related  to  Margaret  his  interview  with  Hastings,  at  the 
house  of  the  Lady  Longueville,  and  continued:  "This  morn- 
ing, not  an  hour  since,  I  sought  him  (for  last  evening  he  did 
not  leave  Edward — a  council  met  at  the  Tower),  and  learned 
that  he  had  detected  the  documents  in  the  recesses  of  Warner's 
engine.  Knowing,  from  Your  Highness  and  your  spies,  that 
he  had  been  open  to  the  gifts  of  Charolois,  I  spoke  to  him 
plainly  of  the  guerdon  that  should  await  his  silence.  'Friar,' 
he  answered,  'if  in  this  court  and  this  world  I  have  found  that 
it  were  a  fool's  virtue  to  be  more  pure  than  others,  and,  if  I 
know  that  I  should  but  provoke  the  wrath  of  those  who  profit 
by  Burgundian  gold  were  I  alone  to  disdain  its  glitter;  I  have 
still  eno'  of  my  younger  conscience  left  me  not  to  make  barter 
of  human  flesh.  Did  I  give  these  papers  to  King  Edward,  the 
heads  of  fifty  gallant  men,  whose  error  is  but  loyalty  to  their 
ancient  sovereign,  would  glut  the  doomsman.  But,'  he  con- 
tinued, 'I  am  yet  true  to  my  King  and  his  cause;  I  shall  know 
how  to  advise  Edward  to  the  frustrating  all  your  schemes. 
The  districts  where  you  hoped  a  rising  will  be  guarded,  the  men 
ye  count  upon  will  be  watched :  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  whose 
vigilance  never  sleeps,  has  learned  that  the  Lady  Margaret  is 
in  England,  disguised  as  a  priest.  To-morrow,  all  the  Religious 
Houses  will  be  searched ;  if  thou  knowest  where  she  lies  con- 
cealed, bid  her  lose  not  an  hour  to  fly.' ' 

"I  will  not  fly!"  exclaimed  Margaret;  "let  Edward,  if  he 
dare,  proclaim  to  my  people  that  their  Queen  is  in  her  city  of 
London.  Let  him  send  his  hirelings  to  seize  her.  Not  in  this 
dress  shall  she  be  found.  In  robes  of  state,  the  sceptre  in  her 
hand,  shall  they  drag  the  consort  of  their  King  to  the  prison- 
house  of  her  palace." 

"On  my  knees,  great  Queen,  I  implore  you  to  be  calm; 
with  the  loss  of  your  liberty  ends  indeed  all  hope  of  victory,  all 
chance  even  of  struggle.  Think  not  Edward's  fears  would 
leave  to  Margaret  the  life  that  his  disdain  has  spared  to  your 
royal  spouse.  Between  your  prison  and  your  grave  but  one 
secret  and  bloody  step!  Be  ruled,  no  time  to  lose!  My  trusty 
Hugh,  even  now.,  waits  with  his  boat  below.  Relays  of  horses 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  169 

are  ready,  night  and  day,  to  bear  you  to  the  coast;  while  seek- 
ing your  restoration,  I  have  never  neglected  the  facilities  for 
flight.  Pause  not,  O  gracious  lady ;  let  not  your  son  say :  'My 
mother's  passion  has  lost  me  the  hope  of  my  grandsire's  crown.'  ' 

"My  boy,  my  princely  boy,  my  Edward!"  exclaimed  Mar- 
garet, bursting  into  tears,  all  the  warrior-queen  merged  in  the 
remembrance  of  the  fond  mother.  "Ah,  faithful  friend,  he  is 
so  gallant  and  so  beautiful !  Oh,  he  shall  reward  thee  well  here- 
after!" 

"May  he  live  to  crush  these  barons,  and  raise  this  people!" 
said  the  demagogue  of  Redesdale.  "But  now,  save  thyself." 

"But  what! — is  it  not  possible  yet  to  strike  the  blow! 
Rather  let  us  spur  to  the  north — rather  let  us  hasten  the  hour 
of  action,  and  raise  the  Red  Rose  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  England!" 

"Ah,  lady,  if  without  warrant  from  your  lord;  if  without 
foreign  subsidies ;  if  without  having  yet  ripened  the  time ;  if 
without  gold,  without  arms,  and  without  one  great  baron  on 
our  side,  we  forestall  a  rising,  all  that  we  have  gained  is  lost; 
and  instead  of  war,  you  can  scarcely  provoke  a  riot.  But 
for  this  accursed  alliance  of  Edward's  daughter  with  the 
brother  of  the  icy-hearted  Louis,  our  triumph  had  been  secure. 
The  French  King's  gold  would  have  manned  a  camp,  bribed 
the  discontented  lords,  and  his  support  have  sustained  the 
hopes  of  the  more  leal  Lancastrians.  But  it  is  in  vain  to  deny, 
that  if  Lord  Warwick  win  Louis — " 

"He  will  not!  He  shall  not!  Louis,  mine  own  kinsman!" 
exclaimed  Margaret,  in  a  voice  in  which  the  anguish  pierced 
through  the  louder  tone  of  resentment  and  disdain. 

"Let  us  hope  that  he  will  not,"  replied  Hilyard  soothingly; 
"some  chance  may  yet  break  off  these  nuptials,  and  once  more 
give  us  France  as  our  firm  ally.  But  now  we  must  be  patient. 
Already  Edward  is  fast  wearing  away  the  gloss  of  his  crown ; 
already  the  great  lords  desert  his  court;  already,  in  the  rural 
provinces,  peasant  and  franklin  complain  of  the  exactions  of 
his  minions:  already  the  mighty  House  of  Nevile  frowns  sullen 
on  the  throne  it  built.  Another  year,  and  who  knows  but  the 
Earl  of  Warwick — the  beloved  and  the  fearless;  whose  states- 
man-art alone  hath  severed  from  you  the  arms  and  aid  of 
France:  at  whose  lifted  finger  all  England  would  bristle  with 
armed  men — may  ride  by  the  side  of  Margaret  through  the 
gates  of  London?" 

"Evil-omened  consoler,  never!"  exclaimed  the  Princess, 
starting  to  her  feet,  with  eyes  that  literally  shot  fire, 


170  THE  LAST  OF  THK  BARONS. 

"Thinkest  thou  that  the  spirit  of  a  Queen  lies  in  me  so  low  and 
crushed,  that  I,  the  descendant  of  Charlemagne,  could  forgive 
the  wrongs  endured  from  Warwick  and  his  father.  But  ihou, 
though  wise  and  loyal,  art  of  the  Commons;  thou  knowest  not 
how  they  feel  through  whose  veins  rolls  the  blood  of  kings!" 

A  dark  and  cold  shade  fell  over  the  bold  face  of  Robin  of 
Redesdale  at  these  words. 

"Ah,  lady,"  he  said,  with  bitterness,  "if  no  misfortune  can 
curb  thy  pride,  in  vain  would  we  rebuild  thy  throne.  It  is 
these  Commons,  Margaret  of  Anjou — these  English  Commons — 
this  Saxon  people,  that  can  alone  secure  to  thee  the  holding  of 
the  realm  which  the  right  arm  wins.  And,  beshrew  me,  much 
as  I  love  thy  cause ;  much  as  thou  hast,  with  thy  sorrows  and 
thy  princely  beauty,  glamoured  and  spelled  my  heart  and  my 
hand — ay,  so  that  I,  the  son  of  a  Lollard,  forget  the  wrongs 
the  Lollards  sustained  from  the  House  of  Lancaster;  so  that 
I,  who  have  seen  the  glorious  fruitage  of  a  Republic,  yet  labor 
for  thee,  to  overshadow  the  land  with  the  throne  of  ONE — yet — 
yet,  lady — yet,  if  I  thought  thou  wert  to  be  the  same  Margaret 
as  of  old,  looking  back  to  thy  dead  kings,  and  contemptuous  of 
thy  living  people,  I  would  not  bid  one  mother's  son  lift  lance 
or  bill  on  thy  behalf." 

So  resolutely  did  Robin  of  Redesdale  utter  these  words,  that 
the  Queen's  haughty  eye  fell  abashed  as  he  spoke;  and  her 
craft,  or  her  intellect,  which  was  keen  and  prompt  where  her 
passions  did  not  deafen  and  blind  her  judgment,  instantly  re- 
turned to  her.  Few  women  equalled  this  once  idol  of  knight 
and  minstrel,  in  the  subduing  fascination  that  she  could  exert 
in  her  happier  moments.  Her  affability  was  as  gracious  as  her 
wrath  was  savage;  and  with  a  dignified  and  winning  frankness, 
she  extended  her  hand  to  her  ally,  as  she  answered,  in  a  sweet, 
humble,  womanly,  and  almost  penitent  voice : 

"Oh,  bravest  and  lealest  of  friends,  forgive  thy  wretched 
Queen.  Her  troubles  distract  her  brain,  chide  her  not  if  they 
sour  her  speech.  Saints  above,  will  ye  not  pardon  Margaret, 
if  at  times  her  nature  be  turned  from  the  mother's  milk  into 
streams  of  gall  and  bloody  purpose,  when  ye  see,  from  your 
homes  serene,  in  what  a  world  of  strife  and  falsehood  her  very 
womanhood  hath  grown  unsexed!"  She  paused  a  moment, 
and  her  uplifted  eyes  shed  tears  fast  and  large.  Then,  with  a 
sigh,  she  turned  to  Hilyard,  and  resumed  more  calmly:  "Yes, 
thou  art  right — adversity  hath  taught  me  much.  And  though 
adversity  will  too  often  but  feed,  and  not  starve,  our  pride ;  yet 
thou — thou  hast  made  me  know,  that  there  is  more  of 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  171 

nobility  in  the  blunt  Children  of  the  People  than  in  many  a 
breast  over  which  flows  the  kingly  robe.  Forgive  me,  and  the 
daughter  of  Charlemagne  shall  yet  be  a  mother  to  the  Com- 
mons, who  claim  thee  as  their  brother!" 

Thoroughly  melted,  Robin  of  Redesdale  bowed  over  the 
hand  held  to  his  lips,  and  his  rough  voice  trembled  as  he  an- 
swered— though  that  answer  took  but  the  shape  of  prayer. 

"And  now,"  said  the  Princess,  smiling,  "to  make  peace 
lasting  between  us ;  I  conquer  myself — I  yield  to  thy  counsels. 
Once  more  the  fugitive,  I  abandon  the  city  that  contains  Hen- 
ry's unheeded  prison.  See,  I  am  ready.  Who  will  know 
Margaret  in  this  attire?  Lead  on!" 

Rejoiced  to  seize  advantage  of  this  altered  and  submissive 
mood,  Robin  instantly  took  the  way  through  a  narrow  passage, 
to  a  small  door  communicating  with  the  river.  There  Hugh 
was  waiting  in  a  small  boat,  moored  to  the  damp  and  discol- 
ored stairs. 

Robin,  by  a  gesture,  checked  the  man's  impulse  to  throw 
himself  at  the  feet  of  the  pretended  priest,  and  bade  him  put 
forth  his  best  speed.  The  Princess  seated  herself  by  the  helm, 
and  the  little  boat  cut  rapidly  through  the  noble  stream.  Gal- 
leys, gay  and  gilded,  with  armorial  streamers,  and  filled  with 
nobles  and  gallants,  passed  them,  noisy  with  mirth  or  music, 
on  their  way.  These  the  fallen  sovereign  heeded  not ;  but, 
with  all  her  faults,  the  woman's  heart  beating  in  her  bosom — 
she  who,  in  prosperity,  had  so  often  wrought  ruin,  and  shame, 
and  woe  to  her  gentle  lord ;  she  who  had  been  reckless  of  her 
trust  as  Queen,  and  incurred  grave — but,  let  us  charitably 
hope,  unjust — suspicion  of  her  faith  as  wife,  still  fixed  her 
eyes  on  the  gloomy  tower  that  contained  her  captive  husband, 
and  felt  that  she  could  have  forgotten  awhile  even  the  loss  of 
power  if  but  permitted  to  fall  on  that  plighted  heart,  and  weep 
over  the  past  with  the  woe-worn  bridegroom  of  her  youth. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IN  WHICH  ARE  LAID  OPEN  TO  THE  READER  THE  CHARAC- 
TER OF  EDWARD  IV.  AND  THAT  OF  HIS  COURT,  WITH 
THE  MACHINATIONS  OF  THE  WOODVILLES  AGAINST  THE 
EARL  OF  WARWICK. 

SCARCELY  need  it  be  said  to  those  who  have  looked  with 
some  philosophy  upon  human  life,  that  the  young  existence  of 
Master  Marmaduke  Nevile,  once  fairly  merged  in  the  great 


172  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

common  sea,  will  rarely  reappear  before  us  individualized  and 
distinct.  The  type  of  the  provincial  cadet  of  the  day,  hasten- 
ing courtwards  to  seek  his  fortune,  he  becomes  lost  amidst  the 
gigantic  characters  and  fervid  passions  that  alone  stand  forth 
in  history.  And  as,  in  reading  biography,  we  first  take  inter- 
est in  the  individual  who  narrates,  but  if  his  career  shall  pass 
into  that  broader  and  more  stirring  life,  in  which  he  mingles 
with  men  who  have  left  a  more  dazzling  memory  than  his  own, 
we  find  the  interest  change  from  the  narrator  to  those  by 
whom  he  is  surrounded  and  eclipsed,  so,  in  this  record  of  a 
time,  we  scarce  follow  our  young  adventurer  into  the  court  of 
the  brilliant  Edward,  ere  the  scene  itself  allures  and  separates 
us  from  our  guide;  his  mission  is,  as  it  were,  well-nigh  done. 
We  leave,  then,  for  a  while,  this  bold,  frank  nature — fresh  from 
the  health  of  the  rural  life — gradually  to  improve,  or  deprave 
itself,  in  the  companionship  it  finds.  The  example  of  the  Lords 
Hastings,  Scales,  and  Worcester,  and  the  accomplishments  of 
the  two  younger  Princes  of  York,  especially  the  Duke  of  Glou- 
cester, had  diffused  among  the  younger  and  gayer  part  of  the 
court  that  growing  taste  for  letters  which  had  somewhat  slept 
during  the  dynasty  of  the  House  of  Lancaster;  and  Marma- 
duke's  mind  became  aware  that  learning  was  no  longer  the  pe- 
culiar distinction  of  the  Church,  and  that  Warwick  was  behind 
his  age,  when  he  boasted  "that  the  sword  was  more  familiar 
to  him  than  the  pen."  He  had  the  sagacity  to  perceive  that 
the  alliance  with  the  great  Earl  did  not  conduce  to  his  popu- 
larity at  court;  and,  even  in  the  King's  presence,  the  courtiers 
permitted  themselves  many  taunts  and  jests  at  the  fiery  War- 
wick, which  they  would  have  bitten  out  their  tongues  ere  they 
would  have  vented  before  the  Earl  himself.  But,  though  the 
Nevile  sufficiently  controlled  his  native  candor  not  to  incur 
unprofitable  quarrel  by  ill-mannered  and  unseasonable  defence 
of  the  hero-baron,  when  sneered  at  or  assailed,  he  had  enough 
of  the  soldier  and  the  man  in  him,  not  to  be  tainted  by  the 
envy  of  the  time  and  place — not  to  lose  his  gratitude  to  his 
patron,  nor  his  respect  for  the  bulwark  of  the  country.  Rather, 
it  may  be  said  that  Warwick  gained  in  his  estimation  when- 
ever compared  with  the  gay  and  silken  personages  who  avenged 
themselves  by  words  for  his  superiority  in  deeds.  Not  only  as 
a  soldier,  but  as  a  statesman,  the  great  and  peculiar  merits  of 
the  Earl  were  visible  in  all  those  measures  which  emanated 
solely  from  himself.  Though  so  indifferently  educated,  his 
busy,  practical  career,  his  affable  mixing  with  all  classes,  and 
his  hearty,  national  sympathies,  made  him  so  well  acquainted 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  173 

with  the  interests  of  his  country  and  the  habits  of  his  country- 
men/  that  he  was  far  more  fitted  to  rule  than  the  scientific 
Worcester  the  learned  Scales.  The  young  Duke  of  Glou- 
cester presented  a  marked  contrast  to  the  general  levity  of  the 
court,  in  speaking  of  this  powerful  nobleman.  He  never 
named  him  but  with  respect,  and  was  pointedly  courteous  to 
even  the  humblest  member  of  the  Earl's  family.  In  this  he 
appeared  to  advantage,  by  the  side  of  Clarence,  whose  weak- 
ness of  disposition  made  him  take  the  tone  of  the  society  in 
which  he  was  thrown,  and  who,  while  really  loving  Warwick, 
often  smiled  at  the  jests  against  him — not,  indeed,  if  uttered 
by  the  Queen  or  her  family,  of  whom  he  ill  concealed  his  jeal- 
ousy and  hatred. 

The  whole  court  was  animated  and  pregnant  with  a  spirit  of 
intrigue,  which  the  artful  cunning  of  the  Queen,  the  astute 
policy  of  Jacquetta,  and  the  animosity  of  the  different  factions 
had  fomented  to  a  degree  quite  unknown  under  former 
reigns.  It  was  a  place  in  which  the  wit  of  young  men  grew  old 
rapidly:  amidst  stratagem,  and  plot,  and  ambitious  design, 
and  stealthy  overreaching,  the  boyhood  of  Richard  III.  passed 
to  its  relentless  manhood :  such  is  the  inevitable  fruit  of  that 
era  in  civilization  when  a  martial  aristocracy  .first  begins  to 
merge  into  a  voluptuous  court. 

Through  this  moving  and  shifting  web  of  ambition  and  in- 
trigue the  royal  Edward  moved  with  a  careless  grace;  simple 
himself,  because  his  object  was  won,  and  pleasure  had  sup- 
planted ambition.  His  indolent,  joyous  temper  served  to 
deaden  his  powerful  intellect;  or,  rather,  his  intellect  was  now 
lost  in  the  sensual  stream  through  which  it  flowed.  Ever  in 
pursuit  of  some  new  face,  his  schemes  and  counter-schemes 
were  limited  to  cheat  a  husband  or  deceive  a  wife;  and  dexter- 
ous and  successful,  no  doubt,  they  were.  But  a  vice  always 
more  destructive  than  the  love  of  women  began  also  to  reign 
over  him,  viz.,  the  intemperance  of  the  table.  The  fastidious 
and  graceful  epicurism  of  the  early  Normans,  inclined  to  dain- 
ties but  abhorring  excess,  and  regarding  with  astonished  dis- 
dain the  heavy  meals  and  deep  draughts  of  the  Saxon,  had 
long  ceased  to  characterize  the  offspring  of  that  noblest  of  all 
noble  races.  Warwick,  whose  stately  manliness  was  disgusted 
with  whatever  savored  of  effeminacy  or  debauch,  used  to  de- 
clare that  he  would  rather  fight  fifty  battles  for  Edward  IV. 
than  once  sup  with  him!  Feasts  were  prolonged  for  hours, 
and  the  banquets  of  this  king  of  the  Middle  Ages  almost  re- 
sembled those  of  the  later  Roman  emperors.  The  Lord  Mon- 


174  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

tagu  did  not  share  the  abstemiousness  of  his  brother  of  War- 
wick. He  was,  next  to  Hastings,  the  King's  chosen  and  most 
favorite  companion.  He  ate  almost  as  much  as  the  King,  and 
drank  very  little  less.  Of  few  courtiers  could  the  same  be 
said!  Over  the  lavish  profligacy  and  excess  of  the  court,  how- 
ever, a  veil,  dazzling  to  the  young  and  high-spirited,  was 
thrown.  Edward  was  thoroughly  the  cavalier,  deeply  imbued 
with  the  romance  of  chivalry,  and,  while  making  the  absolute 
ivoman  his  plaything,  always  treated  the  ideal  woman  as  a 
goddess.  A  refined  gallantry — a  deferential  courtesy  to  dame 
and  demoiselle — united  the  language  of  an  Amadis  with  the 
licentiousness  of  a  Gaolor;  and  a  far  more  alluring  contrast 
than  the  court  of  Charles  II.  presented  to  the  grim  Common- 
wealth, seduced  the  vulgar  in  that  of  this  most  brave  and  most 
beautiful  prince,  when  compared  with  the  mournful  and  lugu- 
brious circles  in  which  Henry  VI.  had  reigned  and  prayed. 
Edward  himself,  too,  it  was  so  impossible  to  judge  with  severe 
justice,  that  his  extraordinary  popularity  in  London,  where  he 
was  daily  seen,  was  never  diminished  by  his  faults;  he  was  so 
bold  in  the  field,  yet  so  mild  in  the  chamber;  when  his  pas- 
sions slept,  he  was  so  thoroughly  good-natured  and  social ;  so 
kind  to  all  about  his  person ;  so  hearty  and  gladsome  in  his 
talk  and  in  his  vices;  so  magnificent  and  so  generous  withal; 
and,  despite  his  indolence,  his  capacities  for  business  were 
marvellous — and  these  last  commanded  the  reverence  of  the 
good  Londoners:  he  often  administered  justice  himself,  like 
the  Caliphs  of  the  East,  and  with  great  acuteness  and  address. 
Like  most  extravagant  men,  he  had  a  wholesome  touch  of 
avarice.  That  contempt  for  commerce  which  characterizes  a 
modern  aristocracy  was  little  felt  by  the  nobles  of  that  day, 
with  the  exception  of  such  blunt  patricians  as  Lord  Warwick 
or  Raoul  de  Fulke.  The  great  house  of  De  la  Pole  (Duke  of 
Suffolk),  the  heir  of  which  married  Edward's  sister,  Elizabeth, 
had  been  founded  by  a  merchant  of  Hull.  Earls  and  arch- 
bishops scrupled  not  to  derive  revenues  from  what  we  should 
now  esteem  the  literal  resources  of  trade.*  No  house  had  ever 


consider  the  Lancastrian  cause  the  more  "  liberal of  the  two,  because  Henry  IV.  was  the 
popular  choice,  and,  in  fact,  an  elected,  not  an  hereditary  king,  so  it  cannot  be  too  emphati- 
cally repeated,  that  the  accession  of  Edward  IV.  was  the  success  of  two  new  and  two 
highly  popular  principles — the  one,  that  of  church  reform,  the  other,  that  of  commercial 
lculation.  All  that  immense  section,  almost  a  majority  of  the  people,  who  had  been  per- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  175 

shown  itself  on  this  point  more  liberal  in  its  policy,  more  free 
from  feudal  prejudices,  than  that  of  the  Plantagenets.  Even 
Edward  II.  was  tenacious  of  the  commerce  with  Genoa,  and 
an  intercourse  with  the  merchant  princes  of  that  republic  prob- 
ably served  to  associate  the  pursuits  of  commerce  with  the  no- 
tion of  rank  and  power.  Edward  III.  is  still  called  the  Father 
of  English  Commerce;  but  Edward  IV.  carried  the  theories 
of  his  ancestors  into  far  more  extensive  practice,  for  his  own 
personal  profit.  This  king,  so  indolent  in  the  palace,  was  lit- 
erally the  most  active  merchant  in  the  mart.  He  traded 
largely  in  ships  of  his  own,  freighted  with  his  own  goods;  and 
though,  according  to  sound  modern  economics,  this  was  any- 
thing but  an  aid  to  commerce,  seeing  that  no  private  merchant 
could  compete  with  a  royal  trader,  who  went  out  and  came  in 
duty-free,  yet  certainly  the  mere  companionship  and  association 
in  risk  and  gain,  and  the  common  conversation  that  it  made 
between  the  affable  monarch  and  the  homeliest  trader,  served 
to  increase  his  popularity,  and  to  couple  it  with  respect  for 
practical  sense.  Edward  IV.  was  in  all  this  pre-eminently 
THE  MAN  OF  HIS  AGE — not  an  inch  behind  it  or  before !  And, 
in  addition  to  this  happy  position,  he  was  one  of  those  darlings 
of  Nature,  so  affluent  and  blest  in  gifts  of  person,  mind,  and  out- 
ward show,  that  it  is  only  at  the  distance  of  posterity  we  ask 
why  men  of  his  own  age  admired  the  false,  the  licentious,  and 
the  cruel,  where  those  contemporaries,  over-dazzled,  saw  but 
the  heroic  and  the  joyous,  the  young,  the  beautiful — the  affable 
to  friend,  and  the  terrible  to  foe ! 

It  was  necessary  to  say  thus  much  on  the  commercial  ten- 
dencies of  Edward,  because,  at  this  epoch,  they  operated 
greatly,  besides  other  motives  shortly  to  be  made  clear,  in  favor 
of  the  plot  laid  by  the  enemies  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  to  dis- 
honor that  powerful  minister,  and  drive  him  from  the  councils 
of  the  King. 

One  morning  Hastings  received  a  summons  to  attend  Ed- 
spirit,  it  had  received  nothing  but  injury  under  Henry  V.,  and  little  belter  than  contempt 
under  Henry  VI.  The  accession  of  the  Yorkists  was,  then,  on  two  grounds,  a  great  popu- 
lar movement  ;  and  it  was  followed  by  a  third  advantage  to  the  popular  cause,  viz.,  in  th; 
determined  desire  both  of  Edward  and  Richard  III.  to  destroy  the  dangerous  influence  of 
the  old  feudal  aristocracy.  To  this  end  Edward  labored  in  the  creation  of  a  court  noblesse  ; 
and  Richard,  with  the  more  dogged  resolution  that  belonged  to  him,  went  at  once  to  the 
root  of  the  feudal  power,  in  forbidding  the  nobles  to  give  badges  and  liveries;*  in  other 
words,  to  appropriate  armies  under  the  name  of  retainers.  Henry  VII.,  in  short,  did  not 
originate  the  policy  for  which  he  has  monopolized  the  credit  ;  he  did  but  steadily  follow  out 
the  theory  of  raising  the  middle  class  and  humbling  the  baronial,  which  the  House  of  York 
first  put  into  practice. 

*  This  also  was  forbidden,  it  is  true,  by  the  edict  of  Edward  IV.,  as  well  as  by  his  prede- 
cessors from  the  reign  of  Richard  II.,  but  no  king  seems  to  have  had  the  courage  to  en- 
force the  prohibition  before  Richard  III. 


ij6  THE    LAST    OK    TI1K.    HAKONS. 

ward,  and,  on  entering  the  royal  chamber,  he  found  already 
assembled,  Lord  Rivers,  the  Queen's  father,  Anthony  Wood- 
ville,  and  the  Earl  of  Worcester. 

The  King  seemed  thoughtful;  he  beckoned  Hastings  to  ap- 
proach, and  placed  in  his  hand  a  letter,  dated  from  Rouen. 
"Read  and  judge,  Hastings,"  said  Edward. 

The  letter  was  from  a  gentleman  in  Warwick's  train.  It 
gave  a  glowing  account  of  the  honors  accorded  to  the  Earl  by 
Louis  XL,  greater  than  those  ever  before  manifested  to  a  sub- 
ject, and  proceeded  thus:  "But  it  is  just  I  should  apprise  you 
that  there  be  strange  rumors  as  to  the  marvellous  love  that 
King  Louis  shows  my  lord  the  Earl.  He  lodgeth  in  the  next 
house  to  him,  and  hath  even  had  an  opening  made  in  the  parti- 
tion-wall between  his  own  chamber  and  the  Earl's.  Men  do 
say  that  the  King  visits  him  nightly,  and  there  be  those  who 
think  that  so  much  stealthy  intercourse  between  an  English 
ambassador  and  the  kinsman  of  Margaret  of  Anjou  bbdeth 
small  profit  to  our  Grace  the  King." 

"I  observe,"  said  Hastings,  glancing  to  the  superscription, 
"that  this  letter  is  addressed  to  my  Lord  Rivers.  Can  he 
avouch  the  fidelity  of  his  correspondent?" 

"Surely,  yes,"  answered  Rivers;  "it  is  a  gentleman  of  my 
own  blood." 

"Were  he  not  so  accredited,"  returned  Hastings,  "I  should 
question  the  truth  of  a  man  who  can  thus  consent  to  play  the 
spy  upon  his  lord  and  superior." 

"The  public  weal  justifies  all  things,"  said  the  Earl  of  Wor- 
cester (who,  though  by  marriage  nearly  connected  to  Warwick, 
eyed  his  power  with  the  jealous  scorn  which  the  man  of  book- 
lore  often  feels  for  one  whose  talent  lies  in  action) — "so  held 
our  masters  in  all  statecraft,  the  Greek  and  Roman." 

"Certes,"  said  Sir  Anthony  Woodville,  "it  grieveth  the 
pride  of  an  English  knight,  that  we  should  be  beholden  for 
courtesies  to  the  born  foe  of  England,  which  I  take  the  French- 
man naturally  to  be." 

"Ah,"  said  Edward,  smiling  sternly,  "I  would  rather  be  my- 
self, with  banner  and  trump,  before  the  walls  of  Paris,  than 
sending  my  cousin,  the  Earl,  to  beg  the  French  King's  brother 
to  accept  my  sister  as  a  bride.  And  what  is  to  become  of  my 
good  merchant-ships,  if  Burgundy  take  umbrage,  and  close 
its  ports?" 

"Beau  sire,"  said  Hastings,  "thou  knowest  how  littfe  cause 
I  have  to  love  the  Earl  of  Warwick.  We  all  here,  sare  your 
gracious  self,  bear  the  memory  of  some  affront  rendered  to  us 


THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  1)7 

by  his  pride  and  heat  of  mood;  but  in  this  council  I  must 
cease  to  be  William  de  Hastings,  and  be  all  and  wholly  the 
King's  servant.  I  say  first,  then,  with  reference  to  these  noble 
peers,  that  Warwick's  faith  to  the  House  of  York  is  too  well 
proven  to  become  suspected  because  of  the  courtesies  of  King 
Louis — an  artful  craft,  as  it  clearly  seems  to  me  of  the  wily 
Frenchman,  to  weaken  your  throne,  by  provoking  your  dis- 
trust of  its  great  supporter.  Fall  we  not  into  such  a  snare ! 
Moreover,  we  may  be  sure  that  Warwick  cannot  be  false,  if  he 
achieve  the  object  of  his  embassy,  viz.,  detach  Louis  from  the 
side  of  Margaret  and  Lancaster  by  close  alliance  with  Edward 
and  York.  Secondly,  sire,  with  regard  to  that  alliance  which 
it  seems  you  would  repent — I  hold  now,  as  I  have  held  ever, 
that  it  is  a  master-stroke  in  policy,  and  the  Earl  in  this  proves 
his  sharp  brain  worthy  his  strong  arm ;  for  as  His  Highness  the 
Duke  of  Gloucester  hath  now  clearly  discovered  that  Margaret 
of  Anjou  has  been  of  late  in  London,  and  that  treasonable  de- 
signs were  meditated,  though  now  frustrated,  so  we  may  ask 
why  the  friends  of  Lancaster  really  stood  aloof? — why  all  con- 
spiracy was,  and  is,  in  vain?  Because,  sire,  of  this  very  alli- 
ance with  France;  because  the  gold  and  subsidies  of  Louis  are 
not  forthcoming;  because  the  Lancastrians  see  that  if  once 
Lord  Warwick  win  France  from  the  Red  Rose,  nothing  short  of 
such  a  miracle  as  their  gaining  Warwick  instead  can  give  a 
hope  to  their  treason.  Your  Highness  fears  the  anger  of  Bur- 
gundy, and  the  suspension  of  your  trade  with  the  Flemings ; 
but  forgive  me — this  is  not  reasonable.  Burgundy  dare  not 
offend  England,  matched,  as  its  arms  are,  with  France;  the 
Flemings  gain  more  by  you  than  you  gain  by  the  Flemings, 
and  those  interested  burghers  will  not  suffer  any  prince's  quar- 
rel to  damage  their  commerce.  Charolois  may  bluster  and 
threat,  but  the  storm  will  pass;  and  Burgundy  will  be  con- 
tented, if  England  remain  neutral  in  the  feud  with  France. 
All  these  reasons,  sire,  urge  me  to  support  my  private  foe,  the 
Lord  Warwick,  and  to  pray  you  to  give  no  ear  to  the  discredit- 
ing his  honor  and  his  embassy." 

The  profound  sagacity  of  these  remarks,  the  repute  of  the 
speaker,  and  the  well-known  grudge  between  him  and  War- 
wick, for  reasons  hereafter  to  be  explained,  produced  a  strong 
effect  upon  the  intellect  of  Edward,  always  vigorous,  save 
when  clouded  with  passion.  But  Rivers,  whose  malice  to  the 
Earl  was  indomitable,  coldly  recommenced. 

"With  submission  to  the  Lord  Hastings,  sire,  whom  we 
know  that  love  sometimes  blinds,  and  whose  allegiance  to  the 


178  THE    LAST    01      I  II!.    i.AKO.N>. 

Earl's  fair  sister,  the  Lady  of  Bonville,  perchance  somewhat 
moves  to  forget  the  day  when  Lord  Warwick — 

"Cease,  my  lord,"  said  Hastings,  white  with  suppressed  an- 
ger; "these  references  beseem  not  the  councils  of  grave  men." 

"Tut,  Hastings,"  said  Edward,  laughing  merrily — "women 
mix  themselves  up  in  all  things :  board  or  council,  bed  or  bat- 
tle— wherever  there  is  mischief  astir,  there,  be  sure,  peeps  a 
woman's  sly  face  from  her  wimple.  Go  on,  Rivers." 

"Your  pardon,  my  Lord  Hastings,"  said  Rivers,  "I  knew 
not  my  thrust  went  so  home;  there  is  another  letter  I  have  not 
yet  laid  before  the  King."  He  drew  forth  a  scroll  from  his 
bosom,  and  read  as  follows: 

"Yesterday  the  Earl  feasted  the  King,  and  as,  in  discharge 
of  mine  office,  I  carved  for  my  lord,  I  heard  King  Louis  say : 
'Pasque  Dieu,  my  Lord  Warwick,  our  couriers  bring  us  word 
that  Count  Charolois  declares  he  shall  yet  wed  the  Lady  Mar- 
garet, and  that  he  laughs  at  your  ambassage.  \Vhat  if  our 
brother,  King  Edward,  fall  back  from  the  treaty?'  'He  durst 
not!'  said  the  Earl." 

"Durst  not!"  exclaimed  Edward,  starting  to  his  feet,  and 
striking  the  table  with  his  clenched  hand,  "Durst  not! 
Hastings,  hear  you  that?" 

Hastings  bowed  his  head,  in  assent.  "Is  that  all,  Lord 
Rivers?" 

"All!  and  methinks  enough." 

"Enough,  by  my  halidame!"  said  Edward,  laughing  bit- 
terly; "he  shall  see  what  a  King  dares  when  a  subject  threat- 
ens. Admit  the  worshipful  the  deputies  from  our  city  of  Lon- 
don— lord  chamberlain,  it  is  thine  office — they  await  in  the 
ante-room." 

Hastings  gravely  obeyed,  and  in  crimson  gowns,  with  purple 
hoods,  and  gold  chains,  marshalled  into  the  King's  presence  a 
goodly  deputation  from  the  various  corporate  companies  of 
London. 

These  personages  advanced  within  a  few  paces  of  the  dais, 
and  there  halted  and  knelt,  while  their  spokesman  read,  on  his 
knees,  a  long  petition,  praying  the  King  to  take  into  his  gra- 
cious consideration  the  state  of  the  trade  with  the  Flemings; 
and  though  not  absolutely  venturing  to  name  or  to  deprecate 
the  meditated  alliance  with  France,  beseeching  His  Grace  to 
satisfy  them  as  to  certain  rumors,  already  very  prejudicial  to 
their  commerce,  of  the  possibility  of  a  breach  with  the  Duke 
of  Burgundy.  The  merchant-king  listened  with  great  atten- 
tion and  affability  to  this  petition ;  and  replied,  shortly,  that 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS,  1?9 

he  thanked  the  deputation  for  their  zeal  for  the  public  weal: 
that  a  king  would  have  enough  to  do,  if  he  contravened  every 
gossip's  tale ;  but  that  it  was  his  firm  purpose  to  protect,  in  all 
ways,  the  London  traders,  and  to  maintain  the  most  amicable 
understanding  with  the  Duke  of  Burgundy. 

The  supplicators  then  withdrew  from  the  royal  presence. 

"Note  you  how  gracious  the  King  was  to  me?"  whispered 
Master  Heyford  to  one  of  his  brethren;  "he  looked  at  me 
while  he  answered." 

"Coxcomb!"  muttered  the  confidant,  "as  if  I  did  not  catch 
his  eye,  when  he  said,  'Ye  are  the  pillars  of  the  public  weal.' 
But  because  Master  Heyford  has  a  handsome  wife,  he  thinks 
he  tosseth  all  London  on  his  own  horns!" 

As  the  citizens  were  quitting  the  palace,  Lord  Rivers  joined 
them:  "You  will  thank  me  for  suggesting  this  deputation, 
worthy  sires,"  said  he,  smiling  significantly;  "you  have  timed 
it  well!"  And  passing  by  them,  without  further  comment,  he 
took  the  way  to  the  Queen's  chamber. 

Elizabeth  was  playing  with  her  infant  daughter,  tossing  the 
child  in  the  air,  and  laughing  at  its  riotous  laughter.  The 
stern  old  Duchess  of  Bedford,  leaning  over  the  back  of  the 
state-chair,  looked  on  with  all  a  grandmother's  pride,  and  half- 
chanted  a  nursery  rhyme.  It  was  a  sight  fair  to  see!  Eliza- 
beth never  seemed  more  lovely;  her  artificial,  dissimulating 
smile  changed  into  hearty,  maternal  glee;  her  smooth  cheek 
flushed  with  exercise,  a  stray  ringlet  escaping  from  the  stiff 
coif!  And,  alas,  the  moment  the  two  ladies  caught  sight  of 
Rivers,  all  the  charm  was  dissolved — the  child  was  hastily  put 
on  the  floor — the  Queen,  half-ashamed  of  being  natural,  even 
before  her  father,  smoothed  back  the  rebel  lock,  and  the  duch- 
ess, breaking  off  in  the  midst  of  her  grandam  song,  exclaimed: 

"Well,  well! — how  thrives  our  policy?" 

"The  King,"  answered  Rivers,  "is  in  the  very  mood  we 
could  desire.  At  the  words,  'He  durst  not!'  the  Plantagenet 
sprung  up  in  his  breast;  and  now,  lest  he  ask  to  see  the  rest  of 
the  letter,  thus  I  destroy  it"; — and  flinging  the  scroll  in  the 
blazing  hearth,  he  watched  it  consume. 

"Why  this,  sir?"  said  the  Queen. 

"Because,  my  Elizabeth,  the  bold  words  glided  off  into  a 
decent  gloss:  'He  durst  not,'  said  Warwick,  'because  what  a 
noble  heart  dares  least,  is  to  belie  tl.e  plighted  word,  and  what  the 
kind  heart  shuns  most  is  to  wrong  the  confiding  friend.'  " 

"It  was  fortunate,"  said  the  Duchess,  "that  Edward  took 
heat  at  the  first  words,  nor  stopped,  it  seems,  for  the  rest!" 


l8o  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"I  was  prepared,  Jacquetta;  had  he  asked  to  see  the  rest,  I 
should  have  dropped  the  scroll  into  the  brazier,  as  containing 
what  I  would  not  presume  to  read.  Courage!  Edward  has 
seen  the  merchants;  he  has  flouted  Hastings — who  would  gain- 
say us.  For  the  rest,  Elizabeth;  be  it  yours  to  speak  of 
affronts  paid  by  the  Earl  to  your  Highness;  be  it  yours,  Jac- 
quetta, to  rouse  Edward's  pride,  by  dwelling  on  Warwick's 
overweening  power.  Be  it  mine,  to  enlist  his  interest  on  be- 
half of  his  merchandise;  be  it  Margaret's,  to  move  his  heart  by 
soft  tears  for  the  bold  Charolois ;  and  ere  a  month  be  told, 
Warwick  shall  find  his  embassy  a  thriftless  laughing-stock,  and 
no  shade  pass  between  the  house  of  Woodville  and  the  sun  of 
England." 

"I  am  scarce  Queen  while  Warwick  is  minister,"  said  Eliza- 
beth vindictively.  "How  he  taunted  me  in  the  garden,  when 
we  met  last!" 

"But  hark  you,  daughter  and  lady  liege,  hark  you!  Ed- 
ward is  not  prepared  for  the  decisive  stroke.  I  have  arranged 
with  Anthony,  whose  chivalrous  follies  fit  him  not  for  full  com- 
prehension of  our  objects,  how  upon  fair  excuse  the  heir  of 
Burgundy's  brother — the  Count  de  la  Roche — shall  visit  Lon- 
don, and  the  Count  once  here,  all  is  ours !  Hush !  take  up 
the  little  one — Edward  comes!" 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHEREIN  MASTER  NICHOLAS  ALWYN- VISITS  THE  COURT,  AND 
THERE  LEARNS  MATTER  OF  WHICH  THE  ACUTE  READER 
WILL  JUDGE  FOR  HIMSELF. 

IT  was  a  morning  towards  the  end  of  May  (some  little  time 
after  Edward's  gracious  reception  of  the  London  deputies), 
when  Nicholas  Alwyn,  accompanied  by  two  servitors  armed  to 
the  teeth — for  they  carried  with  them  goods  of  much  value, 
and  even  in  the  broad  daylight,  and  amidst  the  most  fre- 
quented parts  of  the  city,  men  still  confided  little  in  the  secur- 
ity of  the  law — arrived  at  the  Tower,  and  was  conducted  to  the 
presence  of  the  Queen. 

Elizabeth  and  her  mother  were  engaged  in  animated  but 
whispered  conversation  when  the  goldsmith  entered ;  and  there 
was  an  unusual  gayety  in  the  Queen's  countenance  as  she 
turned  to  Alwyn  and  bade  him  show  her  his  newest  gauds. 

While,  with  a  curiosity  and  eagerness  that  seemed  almost 
childlike,  Elizabeth  turned  over  rings,  chains,  and  brooches, 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  l8l 

scarcely  listening  to  Alwyn's  comments  on  the  lustre  of  the 
gems  or  the  quaintness  of  the  fashion,  the  Duchess  disappeared 
for  a  moment,  and  returned  with  the  Princess  Margaret. 
.  This  young  Princess  had  much  of  the  majestic  beauty  of  her 
royal  brother,  but,  instead  of  the  frank,  careless  expression,  so 
fascinating  in  Edward,  there  was,  in  her  full  and  curved  lip, 
and  bright,  large  eye,  something  at  once  of  haughtiness  and 
passion,  which  spoke  a  decision  and  vivacity  of  character  be- 
yond her  years. 

"Choose  for  thyself,  sweetheart  and  daughter  mine,"  said 
the  Duchess,  affectionately  placing  her  hand  on  Margaret's 
luxuriant  hair,  "and  let  the  noble  visitor  we  await  confess  that 
our  Rose  of  England  outblooms  the  world." 

The  Princess  colored  with  complacent  vanity  at  these  words, 
and,  drawing  near  the  Queen,  looked  silently  at  a  collar  of 
pearls  which  Elizabeth  held. 

"If  I  may  adventure  so  to  say,"  observed  Alwyn,  "pearls 
will  mightily  beseem  Her  Highness's  youthful  bloom;  and  lo! 
here  be  some  adornments  for  the  bodice  or  partelet,  to  sort 
with  the  collar;  not,"  added  the  goldsmith,  bowing  low,  and 
looking  down,  "not,  perchance,  displeasing  to  Her  Highness, 
in  that  they  are  wrought  in  the  guise  of  the  fleur-de-lis — " 

An  impatient  gesture  in  the  Queen,  and  a  sudden  cloud  over 
the  fair  brow  of  Margaret,  instantly  betokened  to  the  shrewd 
trader  that  he  had  committed  some  most  unwelcome  error  in 
this  last  allusion  to  the  alliance  with  King  Louis  of  France, 
which,  according  to  rumor,  the  Earl  of  Warwick  had  well-nigh 
brought  to  a  successful  negotiation ;  and  to  convince  him  yet 
more  of  his  mistake,  the  Duchess  said,  haughtily:  "Good  fel- 
low, be  contented  to  display  thy  goods,  and  spare  us  thy 
comments.  As  for  thy  hideous  fleur-de-lis,  an*  thy  master 
had  no  better  device,  he  would  not  long  rest  the  King's 
jeweller!" 

"  I  have  no  heart  for  the  pearls,"  said  Margaret  abruptly; 
"they  are  at  best  pale  and  sicklied.  What  hast  thou  of  bolder 
ornament,  and  more  dazzling  lustrousness?" 

"These  emeralds,  it  is  said,  were  once  among  the  jewels  of 
the  great  House  of  Burgundy,"  observed  Nicholas  slowly,  and 
fixing  his  keen,  sagacious  look  on  the  royal  purchasers. 

"Of  Burgundy!"  exclaimed  the  Queen. 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  looking  at  the 
ornament  with  care,  and  slightly  coloring — for,  in  fact,  the 
jewels  had  been  a  present  from  Philip  the  Good  to  the  Duke 
of  Bedford,  and  the  exigencies  of  the  civil  wars  had  led,  some 


182  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

time  since,  first  to  their  mortgage,  or  rather  pawn,  and  then 
to  their  sale. 

The  Princess  passed  her  arm  affectionately  round  Jacquetta's 
neck,  and  said:  "If  you  leave  me  my  choice,  I  will  have  none 
but  these  emeralds." 

The  two  elder  ladies  exchanged  looks  and  smiles. 

"Hast  thou  travelled,  young  man?"  asked  the  Duchess. 

"Not  in  foreign  parts,  gracious  lady,  but  I  have  lived  much 
with  those  who  have  been  great  wanderers." 

"Ah!  and  what  say  they  of  the  ancient  friends  of  mine 
house,  the  Princes  of  Burgundy?" 

"Lady,  all  men  agree  that  a  nobler  prince  and  a  juster  than 
Duke  Philip  never  reigned  over  brave  men ;  and  those  who 
have  seen  the  wisdom  of  his  rule  grieve  sorely  to  think  so  ex- 
cellent and  mighty  a  lord  should  have  trouble  brought  to  his 
old  age  by  the  turbulence  of  his  son,  the  Count  of  Charolois." 

Again  Margaret's  fair  brow  lowered,  and  the  Duchess  hast- 
ened to  answer:  "The  disputes  between  princes,  young  man, 
can  never  be  rightly  understood  by  such  as  thou  and  thy 
friends.  The  Count  of  Charolois  is  a  noble  gentleman ;  and 
fire  in  youth  will  break  out.  Richard  the  Lion-hearted  of 
England  was  not  less  puissant  a  king  for  the  troubles  he  occa- 
sioned to  his  sire  when  prince." 

Alwyn  bit  his  lip  to  restrain  a  reply  that  might  not  have  been 
well  received ;  and  the  Queen,  putting  aside  the  emeralds  and 
a  few  other  trinkets,  said  smilingly,  to  the  Duchess:  "Shall 
the  King  pay  for  these,  or  have  thy  learned  men  yet  discov- 
ered the  great  secret?" 

"Nay,  wicked  child,"  said  the  Duchess,  "thou  lovest  to  ban* 
ter  me ;  and  truth  to  say,  more  gold  has  been  melted  in  the 
crucible  than  as  yet  promises  ever  to  come  out  of  it;  but  my 
new  alchemist,  Master  Warner,  seems  to  have  gone  nearer  to 
the  result  than  any  I  have  yet  known.  Meanwhile  the  King's 
treasurer  must,  perforce,  supply  the  gear  to  the  King's  sister." 

The  Queen  wrote  an  order  on  the  officer  thus  referred  to, 
who  was  no  other  than  her  own  father,  Lord  Rivers ;  and  Al- 
wyn, putting  up  his  goods,  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  the 
Duchess  said  carelessly :  "Good  youth,  the  dealings  of  our  mer- 
chants are  more  with  Flanders  than  with  France — is  it  not  so?" 

"Surely,"  said  Alwyn,  "the  Flemings  are  good  traders  and 
honest  folk." 

"It  is  well  known,  I  trust,  in  the  city  of  London,  that  this 
new  alliance  with  France  is  the  work  of  their  favorite,  the  Lord 
Warwick,"  said  the  Duchess  scornfully;  "but  whatever  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  183 

Earl  does  is  right  with  ye  of  the  hood  and  cap,  even  though  he 
were  to  leave  yon  river  without  one  merchant-mast." 

"Whatever  be  our  thoughts,  puissant  lady,"  said  Alwyn  cau- 
tiously, "we  give  them  not  vent  to  the  meddling  with  state 
affairs." 

"Ay,"  persisted  Jacquetta,  "thine  answer  is  loyal  and  dis- 
creet. But  an'  the  Lord  Warwick  had  sought  alliance  with  the 
Count  of  Charolois,  would  there  have  been  brighter  bonfires 
than  ye  will  see  in  Smithfield,  when  ye  hear  that  business  with 
the  Flemings  is  surrendered  for  fine  words  from  King  Louis  the 
Cunning?" 

"We  trust  too  much  to  our  King's  love  for  the  citizens  of 
London  to  fear  that  surrender,  please  your  Highness,"  an- 
swered Alwyn;  '  'our  King  himself  is  the  first  of  our  merchants, 
and  he  hath  given  a  gracious  answer  to  the  deputation  from  our 
city." 

"You  speak  wisely,  sir,"  said  the  Queen;  "and  your  King 
will  yet  defend  you  from  the  plots  of  your  enemies.  You  may 
retire." 

Alwyn,  glad  to  be  released  from  questionings  but  little  to  his 
taste,  hastened  to  depart.  At  the  gate  of  the  royal  lodge,  he 
gave  his  caskets  to  the  servitors  who  attended  him,  and  passing 
slowly  along  the  courtyard,  thus  soliloquized: 

"Our  neighbors  the  Scotch  say,  'It  is  good  fishing  in  muddy 
waters';  but  he  who  fishes  into  the  secrets  of  courts  must  bait 
with  his  head.  What  mischief  doth  that  crafty  quean,  the 
proud  Duchess,  devise?  Um !  They  are  thinking  still  to  match 
the  young  Princess  with  the  hot  Count  of  Charolois.  Better 
for  trade,  it  is  true,  to  be  hand  in  hand  with  the  Flemings ;  but 
there  are  two  sides  to  a  loaf.  If  they  play  such  a  trick  on  the 
stout  Earl,  he  is  not  a  man  to  sit  down  and  do  nothing.  More 
food  for  the  ravens,  I  fear — more  brown  bills  and  bright  lances 
in  the  green  fields  of  poor  England!  And  King  Louis  is  an 
awful  carle,  to  sow  flax  in  his  neighbor's  house,  when  the 
torches  are  burning.  Um!  Here  is  fair  Marmaduke.  He 
looks  brave  in  his  gay  super-tunic.  Well,  sir  and  foster-brother, 
how  fare  you  at  court?" 

"My  dear  Nicholas,  a  merry  welcome  and  hearty  to  your 
sharp,  thoughtful  face.  Ah,  man!  we  shall  have  a  gay  time  for 
you  venders  of  gewgaws.  There  are  to  be  revels  and  jousts — 
revels  in  the  Tower,  and  jousts  in  Smithfield.  We  gentles 
are  already  hard  at  practice  in  the  tilt-yard." 

"Sham  battles  are  better  than  real  ones,  Master  Nevile! 
But  what  is  in  the  wind?" 


184  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"A  sail,  Nicholas!  A  sail,  bound  to  England!  Know  that 
the  Count  of  Charolois  has  permitted  Sir  Anthony  Count  de  la 
Roche,  his  bastard  brother,  to  come  over  to  London,  to  cross 
lances  with  our  own  Sir  Anthony  Lord  Scales.  It  is  an  old 
challenge,  and  right  royally  will  the  encounter  be  held." 

"Urn!"  muttered  Alwyn — "this  bastard,  then,  is  the  carrier 
pigeon."  "And,"  said  he,  aloud,  "is  it  only  to  exchange  hard 
blows  that  Sir  Anthony  of  Burgundy  comes  over  to  confer  with 
Sir  Anthony  of  England?  Is  there  no  court  rumor  of  other 
matters  between  them?" 

"Nay.  What  else?  Plague  on  you  craftsmen!  Ye  cannot 
even  comprehend  the  pleasure  and  pastime  two  knights  take  in 
the  storm  of  the  lists!" 

"I  humbly  avow  it,  Master  Nevile.  But  it  seemeth,  indeed, 
strange  to  me  that  the  Count  of  Charolois  should  take  this  very 
moment  to  send  envoys  of  courtesy,  when  so  sharp  a  slight  has 
been  put  on  his  pride,  and  so  dangerous  a  blow  struck  at  his 
interests,  as  the  alliance  between  the  French  prince  and  the 
Lady  Margaret.  Bold  Charles  has  some  cunning,  I  trow,  which 
your  kinsman  of  Warwick  is  not  here  to  detect." 

"Tush,  man!  Trade,  I  see,  teaches  ye  all  so  to  cheat  and 
overreach,  that  ye  suppose  a  knight's  burgonot  is  as  full  of  tricks 
and  traps  as  a  citizen's  flat-cap.  Would,  though,  that  my  kins- 
man of  Warwick  were  here,"  added  Marmaduke,  in  a  low  whis- 
per, "for  the  women  and  the  courtiers  are  doing  their  best  to 
belie  him." 

"Keep  thyself  clear  of  them  all,  Marmaduke,"  said  Alwyn; 
"for,  by  the  Lord,  I  see  that  the  evil  days  are  coming  once  more, 
fast  and  dark,  and  men  like  thee  will  again  have  to  choose  be- 
tween friend  and  friend,  kinsman  and  king.  For  my  part,  I 
say  nothing;  for  I  love  not  fighting,  unless  compelled  to  it. 
But  if  ever  I  do  fight,  it  will  not  be  by  thy  side,  under  Warwick's 
broad  flag." 

"Eh,  man?"  interrupted  the  Nevile. 

"Nay,  nay, **  continued  Nicholas,  shaking  his  head,  "I  ad- 
mire the  great  Earl,  and  were  I  lord  or  gentle,  the  great  Earl 
should  be  my  chief.  But  each  to  his  order;  and  the  trader's 
tree  grows  not  out  of  a  baron's  walking-staff.  King  Edward 
may  be  a  stern  ruler,  but  he  is  a  friend  to  the  goldsmiths,  and 
has  just  confirmed  our  charter.  Let  every  man  praise  the  bridge 
he  goes  over,  as  the  saw  saith.  Truce  to  this  talk,  Master 
Nevile.  I  hear  that  your  young  hostess — ehem — Mistress  Sibyll, 
is  greatly  marvelled  at  among  the  court  gallants — is  it  so?" 

Marmaduke' s  frank  face  grew  gloomy.     "Alas!  dear  foster- 


THE   LAST    OF   THE    feAfcONS.  185 

brother,  he  said,  dropping  the  somewhat  affected  tone  in  which 
he  had  before  spoken,  "I  must  confess,  to  my  shame,  that  I 
cannot  yet  get  the  damsel  out  of  my  thoughts,  which  is  what  I 
consider  it  a  point  of  manhood  and  spirit  to  achieve." 

"How  so?" 

"Because,  when  a  maiden  chooseth  steadily  to  say  nay  to 
your  wooing — to  tollow  her  heels,  and  whine  and  beg,  is  a  dog's 
duty,  not  a  man's." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Alwyn,  in  a  voice  of  great  eagerness, 
"mean  you  to  say  that  you  have  wooed  Sibyll  Warner  as  your 
wife?"  f 

"Verily,  yes!" 

"And  failed?" 

"And  failed!" 

"Poor  Marmaduke!" 

"There  is  no  'poor'  in  the  matter,  Nick  Alwyn,"  returned 
Marmaduke  sturdily;  "if  a  girl  likes  me,  well;  if  not,  there 
are  too  many  others  in  the  wide  world  for  a  young  fellow  to 
break  his  heart  about  one.  Yet, "  he  added,  after  a  short  pause, 
and  with  a  sigh — "yet,  if  thou  hast  not  seen  her  since  she  came 
to  the  court,  thou  wilt  find  her  wondrously  changed." 

"More's  the  pity!"  said  Alwyn,  reciprocating  his  friend's 
sigh. 

"I  mean  that  she  seems  all  the  comelier  for  the  court  air. 
And  beshrew  me,  I  think  the  Lord  Hastings,  with  his  dulcet 
flatteries,  hath  made  it  a  sort  of  frenzy  for  all  the  gallants  to 
flock  round  her." 

"I  should  like  to  see  Master  Warner  again, "  said  Alwyn; 
"Where  lodges  he?" 

"Yonder — by  the  little  postern,  on  the  third  flight  of  the  tur- 
ret that  flanks  the  corridor,*  next  to  Friar  Bungey,  the  magician ; 
but  it  is  broad  daylight,  and  therefore  not  so  dangerous — not 
but  thou  mayest  as  well  patter  an  Ave  in  going  upstairs." 

"Farewell,  Master  Nevile,"  said  Alwyn,  smiling;  "I  will 
seek  the  mechanician,  and  if  I  find  there  Mistress  Sibyll,  what 
shall  I  say  from  thee?" 

"That  young  bachelors  in  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  will 
never  want  fair  feres, "  answered  the  Nevile,  debonairly  smooth- 
ing his  lawn  partelet. 

*  This  description  refers  to  that  part  of  the  Tower  called  the  King's  or  Queen's  Lodge 
and  long  since  destroyed. 


l86  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

EXHIBITING  THE  BENEFITS  WHICH  ROYAL  PATRONAGE  CONFERS 
ON  GENIUS.  ALSO  THE  EARLY  LOVES  OF  THE  LORD  HAST- 
INGS; WITH  OTHER  MATTERS  EDIFYING  AND  DELECTABLE. 

THE  furnace  was  still  at  work,  the  flame  glowed,  the  bellows 
heaved,  but  these  were  no  longer  ministering  to  the  service  of 
a  mighty  and  practical  invention.  The  mathematician — the 
philosopher — had  descended  to  the  alchemist.  The  nature  of 
the  TIME  ha<}  conquered  the  nature  of  a  GENIUS  meant  to  sub- 
due time.  Those  studies  that  had  gone  so  far  to  forestall  the 
master-triumph  of  far  later  ages  were  exchanged  for  occupa- 
tions that  played  with  the  toys  of  infant  wisdom.  Oh,  true 
Tartarus  of  Genius — when  its  energies  are  misapplied,  when 
the  labor  but  rolls  the  stone  up  the  mountain,  but  pours  water 
upon  water,  through  the  sieve! 

There  is  a  sanguineness  in  men  of  great  intellect  which  often 
leads  them  into  follies  avoided  by  the  dull.  When  Adam  War- 
ner saw  the  ruin  of  his  contrivance ;  when  he  felt  that  time,  and 
toil,  and  money  were  necessary  to  its  restoration ;  -and  when 
the  gold  he  lacked  was  placed  before  him  as  a  reward  for  al- 
chemical labors — he  at  first  turned  to  alchemy,  as  he  would 
have  turned  to  the  plough,  as  he  had  turned  to  conspiracy, 
simply  as  a  means  to  his  darling  end.  But  by  rapid  degrees, 
the  fascination  which  all  the  elder  sages  experienced  in  the 
grand  secret  exercised  its  witchery  over  his  mind.  If  Roger 
Bacon,  though  catching  the  notion  of  the  steam-engine,  devoted 
himself  to  the  philosopher's  stone;  if  even  in  so  much  more  en- 
lightened an  age,  Newton  had  wasted  some  precious  hours  in 
the  transmutation  of  metals,  it  was  natural  that  the  solitary 
sage  of  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  should  grow,  for  a  while  at 
least,  wedded  to  a  pursuit  which  promised  results  so  august. 
And  the  worst  of  alchemy  is,  that  it  always  allures  on  its  vic- 
tims :  one  gets  so  near,  and  so  near  the  object — it  seems  that  so 
small  an  addition  will  complete  the  sum !  So  there  he  was,  this 
great  practical  genius,  hard  at  work  on  turning  copper  into  gold ! 

"Well,  Master  Warner,"  said  the  young  goldsmith,  entering 
the  student's  chamber,  "methinks  you  scarcely  remember  your 
friend  and  visitor,  Nicholas  Alwyn?" 

' '  Remember,  oh,  certes !  doubtless  one  of  the  gentlemen  pres- 
ent when  they  proposed  to  put  me  to  the  brake  * — please  to 
stand  a  little  on  this  side — what  is  your  will?" 

*  Brake,  the  old  word  for  rack. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  187 

"I  am  not  a  gentleman,  and  I  should  have  been  loth  to  stand 
idly  by  when  the  torture  was  talked  of  for  a  free-born  English- 
man, let  alone  a  scholar.  And  where  is  your  fair  daughter, 
Master  Warner?  I  suppose  you  see  but  little  of  her  now  she 
is  the  great  dame's  waiting-damsel!" 

"And  why  so,  Master  Alwyn?"  asked  a  charming  voice;  and 
Alwyn,  for  the  first  time,  perceived  the  young  form  of  Sibyll,  by 
the  embrasure  of  a  window,  from  which  might  be  seen  in  the 
court  below  a  gay  group  of  lords  and  courtiers,  with  the  plain, 
dark  dress  of  Hastings  contrasting  their  gaudy  surcoats,  glit- 
tering with  cloth  of  gold.  Alywn's  tongue  clove  to  his  mouth; 
all  he  had  to  say  was  forgotten  in  a  certain  bashful  and  inde- 
scribable emotion. 

The  alchemist  had  returned  to  his  furnace,  and  the  young 
man  and  the  girl  were  as  much  alone  as  if  Adam  Warner  had 
been  in  heaven. 

"And  why  should  the  daughter  forsake  the  sire  more  in  a 
court  where  love  is  rare,  than  in  the  humbler  home,  where  they 
may  need  each  other  less?" 

' '  I  thank  thee  for  the  rebuke,  mistress, ' '  said  Alwyn,  delighted 
with  her  speech;  "for  I  should  have  been  sorry  to  see  thy 
heart  spoiled  by  the  vanities  that  kill  most  natures."  Scarcely 
had  he  uttered  these  words,  than  they  seemed  to  him  overbold 
and  presuming;  for  his  eye  now.  took  in  the  great  change  of 
which  Marmaduke  had  spoken.  Sibyll's  dress  beseemed  the 
new  rank  which  she  held :  the  corset,  fringed  with  gold,  and 
made  of  the  finest  thread,  showed  the  exquisite  contour  of  the 
throat  and  neck,  whose  ivory  it  concealed.  The  kirtle  of  rich 
blue  became  the  fair  complexion  and  dark  chestnut  hair ;  and 
over  all  she  wore  that  most  graceful  robe  called  the  sasquenice, 
of  which  the  old  French  poet  sang : 

"  Car  nulle  robe  n'est  si  belle, 
A  dame  ne  &  demoiselle. " 

This  garment,  worn  over  the  rest  of  the  dress,  had  perhaps 
a  classical  origin,  and,  with  slight  variations,  may  be  seen  on 
the  Etruscan  vases;  it  was  long  and  loose,  of  the  whitest  and 
finest  linen,  with  hanging  sleeves,  and  open  at  the  sides.  But 
it  was  not  the  mere  dress  that  had  embellished  the  young 
maiden's  form  and  aspect — it  was  rather  an  indefinable  alteration 
in  the  expression  and  the  bearing.  She  looked  as  if  born  to  the 
air  of  courts;  still  modest,  indeed,  and  simple,  but  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  dignity  and  almost  of  power ;  and  in  fact  the 
woman  had  been  taught  the  power  that  womanhood  possesses. 
She  had  been  admired,  followed,  flattered;  she  had  learned 


l88  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

the  authority  of  beauty.  Her  accomplishments,  uncommon 
in  that  age  among  her  sex,  had  aided  her  charm  of  person: 
her  natural  pride,  which  though  hitherto  latent,  was  high 
and  ardent,  fed  her  heart  with  sweet  hopes — a  bright  career 
seemed  to  extend  before  her;  and,  at  peace  as  to  her  father's 
safety,  relieved  from  the  drudging  cares  of  poverty,  her  fancy 
was  free  to  follow  the  phantasms  of  sanguine  youth  through 
the  airy  land  of  dreams.  And  therefore  it  was  that  the  maid 
was  changed! 

At  the  sight  of  the  delicate  beauty,  the  self-possessed  expres- 
sion, the  courtly  dress,  the  noble  air  of  Sibyll,  Nicholas  Alwyn 
recoiled,  and  turned  pale:  he  no  longer  marvelled  at  her  re- 
jection of  Marmaduke,  and  he  started  at  the  remembrance  of 
the  bold  thoughts  which  he  had  dared  himself  to  indulge. 

The  girl  smiled  at  the  young  man's  confusion. 

"It  is  not  prosperity  that  spoils  the  heart,"  she  said  touch- 
ingly,  "unless  it  be  mean,  indeed.  Thou  rememberest,  Master 
Alwyn,  that  when  God  tried  His  saint,  it  was  by  adversity  and 
affliction." 

"May  thy  trial  in  these  last  be  over,"  answered  Alwyn;  "but 
the  humble  must  console  their  state  by  thinking  that  the  great 
have  their  trials  too;  and,  as  our  homely  adage  hath  it,  'That 
is  not  always  good  in  the  maw  which  is  sweet  in  the  mouth.' 
Thou  seest  much  of  my  gentle  foster-brother,  Mistress  Sibyll?" 

"But  in  the  court  dances,  Master  Alwyn;  for  most  of  the 
hours  in  which  my  lady  Duchess  needs  me  not  are  spent  here. 
Oh,  my  father  hopes  great  things!  And  now  at  last  fame  dawns 
upon  him." 

"I  rejoice  to  hear  it,  mistress;  and  so,  having  paid  ye  both 
my  homage,  I  take  my  leave,  praying  that  I  may  visit  you  from 
time  to  time,  if  it  be  only  to  consult  this  worshipful  master 
touching  certain  improvements  in  the  horologe,  in  which  his 
mathematics  can  doubtless  instruct  me — Farewell.  I  have  some 
jewels  to  show  to  the  Lady  of  Bonville. " 

"The,  Lady  of  Bonville!"  repeated  Sibyll,  changing  color; 
"she  is  a  dame  of  notable  loveliness." 

"So  men  say;  and  mated  to  a  foolish  lord;  but  scandal, 
which  spares  few,  breathes  not  on  her — rare  praise  for  a  court 
dame.  Few  houses  can  have  the  boast  of  Lord  Warwick's — 
'that  all  the  men  are  without  fear  and  all  the  women  without 
stain.'  ' 

"It  is  said,"  observed  Sibyll,  looking  down,  "that  my  Lord 
Hastings  once  much  affectioned  the  Lady  Bonville.  Hast  thou 
heard  such  gossip?" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  189 

"Surely,  yes:  in  the  city  we  hear  all  the  tales  of  the  court; 
for  many  a  courtier,  following  King  Edward's  exemplar,  dines 
with  the  citizen  to-day,  that  he  may  borrow  gold  from  the  citi- 
zen to-morrow.  Surely,  yes;  and  hence,  they  say,  the  small 
love  the  wise  Hastings  bears  to  the  stout  Earl." 

"How  runs  the  tale?     Be  seated,  Master  Alwyn." 

"Marry,  thus:  when  William  Hastings  was  but  a  squire,  and 
much  favored  by  Richard,  Duke  of  York,  he  lifted  his  eyes  to 
the  Lady  Katherine  Nevile,  sister  to  the  Earl  of  Warwick ;  and 
in  beauty  and  in  dower,  as  in  birth,  a  mate  for  a  king's  son." 

"And,  doubtless,  the  Lady  Katherine  returned  his  love?" 

"So  it  is  said,  maiden;  and  the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  her  father, 
and  Lord  Warwick,  her  brother,  discovered  the  secret,  and 
swore  that  no  new  man  (the  stout  Earl's  favorite  word  of  con- 
tempt) though  he  were  made  a  duke,  should  give  to  an  upstart 
posterity  the  quarterings  of  Montagu  and  Nevile.  Marry,  Mis- 
tress Sibyll,  there  is  a  north  country  and  pithy  proverb :  '  Happy 
is  the  man  whose  father  went  to  the  devil.'  Had  some  old 
Hastings  been  a  robber  and  extortioner,  and  left  to  brave  Will- 
iam the  heirship  of  his  wickedness  in  lordships  and  lands,  Lord 
Warwick  had  not  called  him  'a  new  man.'  Master  Hastipgs 
was  dragged,  like  a  serf's  son,  before  the  Earl  on  his  dais;  and 
be  sure  he  was  rated  soundly,  for  his  bold  blood  was  up,  and 
he  defied  the  Earl,  as  a  gentleman  born,  to  single  battle.  Then 
the  Earl's  followers  would  have  fallen  on  him;  and  in  those 
days,  under  King  Henry,  he  who  bearded  a  baron  in  his  hall 
must  have  a  troop  at  his  back,  or  was  like  to  have  a  rope  round 
his  neck ;  but  the  Earl  (for  the  lion  is  not  as  fierce  as  they 
paint  him)  came  down  from  his  dais,  and  said:  'Man,  I  like 
thy  spirit,  and  I  myself  will  dub  thee  knight,  that  I  may  pick 
up  thy  glove  and  give  thee  battle/  ' 

"And  they  fought?     Brave  Hastings!" 

"No.  For,  whether  the  Duke  of  York  forbade  it,  or  whether 
the  Lady  Katherine  would  not  hear  of  such  strife  between  fere 
and  frere,  I  know  not;  but  Duke  Richard  sent  Hastings  to  Ire- 
land, and,  a  month  after,  the  Lady  Katherine  married  Lord 
Bonville's  son  and  heir — so,  at  least,  tell  the  gossips  and  sing 
the  ballad-mongers.  Men  add,  that  Lord  Hastings  still  loves 
the  dame,  though,  certes,  he  knows  how  to  console  himself." 

"Loves  her!  Nay,  nay — I  trow  not,"  answered  Sibyll,  in  a 
low  voice,  and  with  a  curl  of  her  dewy  lip. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  gently,  and  Lord  Hastings 
himself  entered.  He  came  in  with  the  familiarity  of  one  ac- 
customed to  the  place. 


igo  THE  LAST  OF  THK  HARONS. 

"And  how  fares  the  grand  secret,  Master  Warner?  Sweet 
mistress!  them  seemest  lovelier  to  me  in  this  dark  chamber  than 
outshining  all  in  the  galliard.  Ha!  Master  Alwyn,  I  owe  thee 
many  thanks  for  making  me  know  first  the  rare  arts  of  this  fair 
emblazoner.  Move  me  yon  stool,  good  Alwyn." 

As  the  goldsmith  obeyed,  he  glanced  from  Hastings  to  the 
blushing  face  and  heaving  bosom  of  Sibyll,  and  a  deep  and  ex- 
quisite pang  shot  through  his  heart.  It  was  not  jealousy  alone; 
it  was  anxiety,  compassion,  terror.  The  powerful  Hastings — 
the  ambitious  lord — the  accomplished  libertine — what  a  fate  for 
poor  Sibyll,  if  for  such  a  man  the  cheek  blushed,  and  the  bosom 
heaved ! 

"Well,  Master  Warner,"  resumed  Hastings,  "thou  art  still 
silent  as  to  thy  progress." 

The  philosopher  uttered  an  impatient  groan. 

"Ah,  I  comprehend.  The  gold-maker  must  not  speak  of  his 
craft  before  the  goldsmith.  Good  Alwyn,  thou  mayest  retire. 
All  arts  have  their  mysteries." 

Alwyn,  with  a  sombre  brow,  moved  to  the  door. 

"In  sooth,"  he  said,  "I  have  overtarried,  good  my  lord. 
The  Lady  Bonville  will  chide  me;  for  she  is  of  no  patient 
temper. 

"Bridle  thy  tongue,  artisan,  and  begone!"  said  Hastings, 
with  unusual  haughtiness  and  petulance. 

"I  stung  him  there,"  muttered  Alwyn,  as  he  withdrew — "Oh! 
fool  that  I  was  to — nay,  I  thought  it  never.  I  did  but  dream  it. 
What  wonder  we  traders  hate  these  silken  lords.  They  reap, 
we  sow;  they  trifle,  we  toil;  they  steal  with  soft  words  into  the 
hearts  which — Oh,  Marmaduke,  thou  art  right — right!  Stout 
men  sit  not  down  to  weep  beneath  the  willow.  But  she — the 
poor  maiden! — she  looked  so  haught  and  so  happy.  This  is 
early  May ;  will  she  wear  that  look  when  the  autumn  leaves  are 
strewn?" 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  WOODVILLE  INTRIGUE  PROSPERS — MONTAGU  CONFERS  WITH 
HASTINGS — VISITS  THE  ARCHBISHOP  OF  YORK,  AND  IS  MET  ON 
THE  ROAD  BY  A  STRANGE  PERSONAGE. 

AND  now  the  one  topic  at  the  court  of  King  Edward  IV.  was 
the  expected  arrival  of  Anthony  of  Burgundy,  Count  de  la 
Roche,  bastard  brother  of  Charolois,  afterwards,  as  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  so  famous  as  Charles  the  Bold.  Few  indeed,  out  of 
the  immediate  circle  of  the  Duchess  of  Bedford's  confidants, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  IQI 

regarded  the  visit  of  this  illustrious  foreigner  as  connected  with 
any  object  beyond  the  avowed  one  of  chivalrous  encounter  with 
Anthony  Woodville ;  the  fulfilment  of  a  challenge  given  by  the 
latter  two  years  before,  at  the  time  of  the  Queen's  coronation. 
The  origin  of  this  challenge,  Anthony  Woodville  Lord  Scales 
has  himself  explained  in  a  letter  to  the  bastard,  still  extant,  and 
of  which  an  extract  may  be  seen  in  the  popular  and  delightful 
biographies  of  Miss  Strickland.* 

It  seems  that,  on  the  Wednesday  before  Easter-day,  1465, 
as  Sir  Anthony  was  speaking  to  his  royal  sister,  "on  his 
knees,"  all  the  ladies  of  the  court  gathered  round  him,  and 
bound  to  his  left  knee  a  band  of  gold,  adorned  with  stones 
fashioned  into  the  letters  S.S.  (souvenance  or  remembrance), 
and  to  this  band  was  suspended  an  enamelled  "Forget-me- 
not."  "And  one  of  the  ladies  said  that  'he  ought  to  take  a 
step  fitting  for  the  times.' '  This  step  was  denoted  by  a  letter 
on  vellum,  bound  with  a  gold  thread,  laced  in  his  cap ;  and 
having  obtained  the  King's  permission  to  bring  the  adventure 
of  the  flower  of  souvenance  to  a  conclusion,  the  gallant  An- 
thony forwarded  the  articles  and  the  enamelled  flower  to  the 
bastard  of  Burgundy,  beseeching  him  to  touch  the  latter  with 
his  knightly  hand,  in  token  of  his  accepting  the  challenge. 
The  Count  de  la  Roche  did  so,  but  was  not  sent  by  his 
brother  amongst  the  knights  whom  Charolois  despatched  to 
England,  and  the  combat  had  been  suspended  to  the  present 
time. 

But  now  the  intriguing  Rivers  and  his  Duchess  gladly  availed 
themselves  of  so  fair  a  pretext  for  introducing  to  Edward  the 
able  brother  of  Warwick's  enemy,  and  the  French  prince's 
rival,  Charles  of  Burgundy ;  and  Anthony  Woodville,  too  gentle 
and  knightly  a  person  to  have  abetted  their  cunning  projects  in 
any  mode  less  chivalrous,  willingly  consented  to  revive  a  chal- 
lenge in  honor  of  the  ladies  of  England. 

The  only  one  amongst  the  courtiers  who  seemed  dissatisfied 
with  the  meditated  visit  of  the  doughty  Burgundian  champion 
was  the  Lord  Montagu.  This  penetrating  and  experienced  per- 
sonage was  not  to  be  duped  by  an  affectation  of  that  chivalry 
which,  however  natural  at  the  court  of  Edward  III.,  was  no 
longer  in  unison  with  the  more  intriguing  and  ambitious  times 
over  which  presided  the  luxurious  husband  of  Elizabeth  Wood- 
ville. He  had  noticed  of  late,  with  suspicion,  that  Edward  had 
held  several  councils  with  the  anti-Nevile  faction,  from  which 
he  himself  was  excluded.  The  King,  who  heretofore  had  de- 

*  "  Queens  of  England,"  vol.  iii.  ;;.  j3o. 


192  THE    LAST    Of    THE    BARONS. 

lighted  in  his  companionship,  had  shown  him  marks  of  cold- 
ness and  estrangement,  and  there  was  an  exulting  malice  in  the 
looks  of  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  which  augured  some  ap- 
proaching triumph  over  the  great  family  which  the  Woodvilles 
so  openly  labored  to  supplant.  One  day,  as  Marmaduke  was 
loitering  in  the  courtyard  of  the  Tower,  laughing  and  jesting 
with  his  friends,  Lord  Montagu,  issuing  from  the  King's  closet, 
passed  him  with  a  hurried  step  and  a  thoughtful  brow.  This 
haughty  brother  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick  had  so  far  attended  to 
the  recommendation  of  the  latter,  that  he  had  with  some  cour- 
tesy excused  himself  to  Marmaduke  for  his  language  in  the 
archery-ground,  and  had  subsequently,  when  seeing  him  in 
attendance  on  the  King,  honored  him  with  a  stately  nod,  or  a 
brief  "Good-morrow,  young  kinsman."  But  as  his  eye  now 
rested  on  Marmaduke,  while  the  group  vailed  their  bonnets  to 
the  powerful  courtier,  he  called  him  forth,  with  a  familiar 
smile  he  had  never  before  assumed,  and  drawing  him  apart, 
and  leaning  on  his  shoulder,  much  to  the  envy  of  the  standers- 
by,  he  said  caressingly: 

"Dear  kinsman  Guy — " 

"Marmaduke,  please  you,  my  lord." 

"Dear  kinsman  Marmaduke,  my  brother  esteems  you  for 
your  father's  sake.  And,  sooth  to  say,  the  Neviles  are  not  so 
numerous  at  court  as  they  were.  Business  and  state  matters 
have  made  me  see  too  seldom  those  whom  I  would  most  affect. 
Wilt  thou  ride  with  me  to  the  More  Park?  I  would  present 
thee  to  my  brother  the  Archbishop." 

"If  the  King  would  graciously  hold  me  excused." 

"The  King,  sir!  when  / — I  forgot,"  said  Montagu,  check- 
ing himself — "oh,  as  to  that,  the  King  stirs  not  out  to-day! 
He  hath  with  him  a  score  of  tailors  and  armorers,  in  high 
council  on  the  coming  festivities.  I  will  warrant  thy  release ; 
and  here  comes  Hastings,  who  shall  confirm  it." 

"Fair  my  lord!" — as  at  that  moment  Hastings  emerged 
from  the  little  postern  that  gave  egress  from  the  apartments 
occupied  by  the  alchemist  of  the  Duchess  of  Bedford — "wilt 
thou  be  pleased,  in  thy  capacity  of  chamberlain,  to  sanction 
my  cousin  in  a  day's  absence?  I  would  confer  with  him  on 
family  matters." 

"Certes,  a  small  favor  to  so  deserving  a  youth.  I  will  see 
to  his  deputy." 

"A  word  with  you,  Hastings,"  said  Montagu  thoughtfully, 
and  he  drew  aside  his  fellow  courtier:  "What  thinkest  thou  of 
this  Burgundy  bastard's  visit'1" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARON...  193 

"That  it  has  given  a  peacock's  strut  to  the  popinjay  An- 
thony Woodville." 

"Would  that  were  all,"  returned  Montagu.  "But  the  very 
moment  that  Warwick  is  negotiating  with  Louis  of  France,  this 
interchange  of  courtesies  with  Louis's  deadly  foe,  the  Count  of 
Charolois,  is  out  of  season." 

"Nay,  take  it  not  so  gravely — a  mere  pastime." 

"Hastings,  thou  knowest  better.  But  thou  art  no  friend  of 
my  great  brother." 

"Small  cause  have  I  to  be  so,"  answered  Hastings,  with  a 
quivering  lip.  "To  him  and  your  father  I  owe  as  deep  a  curse 
as  ever  fell  on  the  heart  of  man.  I  have  lived  to  be  above 
even  Lord  Warwick's  insult.  Yet  young,  I  stand  amongst  the 
warriors  and  peers  of  England,  with  a  crest  as  haught,  and  a 
scutcheon  as  stainless  as  the  best.  I  have  drank  deep  of  the 
world's  pleasures.  I  command,  as  I  list,  the  world's  gaudy 
pomps,  and  I  tell  thee,  that  all  my  success  in  life  countervails 
not  the  agony  of  the  hour  when  all  the  bloom  and  loveliness  of 
the  earth  faded  into  winter,  and  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved 
was  sacrificed  to  her  brother's  pride." 

The  large  drops  stood  on  the  pale  brow  of  the  fortunate 
noble  as  he  thus  spoke,  and  his  hollow  voice  affected  even  the 
worldly  Montagu. 

"Tush,  Hastings!"  said  Montagu  kindly;  "these  are  but  a 
young  man's  idle  memories.  Are  we  not  all  fated,  in  our  early 
years,  to  love  in  vain?  Even  I  married  not  the  maiden  I 
thought  the  fairest,  and  held  the  dearest.  For  the  rest,  be- 
think thee — thou  wert  then  but  a  simple  squire." 

"But  of  as  ancient  and  pure  a  blood  as  ever  rolled  its  fiery 
essence  through  a  Norman's  veins." 

"It  may  be  so;  but  old  houses,  when  impoverished,  are 
cheaply  held.  And  thou  must  confess  thou  wert  then  no  mate 
for  Katherine.  Now,  indeed,  it  were  different;  now  a  Nevile 
might  be  proud  to  call  Hastings  brother." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Hastings  proudly — "I  know  it,  lord,  and 
why?  Because  I  have  gold,  and  land,  and  the  King's  love, 
and  can  say,  as  the  Centurion  to  my  fellow-man,  'Do  this,  and 
he  doeth  it' ;  and  yet  I  tell  thee,  Lord  Montagu,  that  I  am  less 
worthy  now  the  love  of  beauty,  the  right  hand  of  fellowship 
from  a  noble  spirit,  than  I  was  then,  when,  the  simple  squire, 
my  heart  full  of  truth  and  loyalty,  with  lips  that  had  never 
lied,  with  a  soul  never  polluted  by  unworthy  pleasures  or  mean 
intrigxies,  I  felt  that  Katherine  Nevile  should  never  blush  to 
v\vn  her  fere  and  plighted  lord  in  William  de  Hastings.  Let 


194  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

this  pass — let  it  pass.  You  call  me  no  friend  to  Warwick. 
True!  but  I  am  a  friend  to  the  King  he  has  served,  and  the 
land  of  my  birth  to  which  he  has  given  peace ;  and,  therefore, 
not  till  Warwick  desert  Edward,  not  till  he  wake  the  land  again 
to  broil  and  strife,  will  I  mingle  in  the  plots  of  those  who  seek 
his  downfall.  If,  in  my  office  and  stated  rank,  I  am  compelled 
to  countenance  the  pageant  of  this  mock  tournament,  and  seem 
to  honor  the  coming  of  the  Count  de  la  Roche,  I  will  at  least 
stand  aloof  and  free  from  all  attempt  to  apply  a  gaudy  pageant 
to  a  dangerous  policy ;  and  on  this  pledge,  Montagu,  I  give  you 
my  knightly  hand." 

"It  suffices,"  answered  Montagu,  pressing  the  hand  ex- 
tended to  him.  "But  the  other  day  I  heard  the  King's  dis- 
sour  tell  him  a  tale  of  some  tyrant,  who  silently  showed  a  curi- 
ous questioner  how  to  govern  a  land,  by  cutting  down,  with 
his  staff,  the  heads  of  the  tallest  poppies;  and  the  Duchess  of 
Bedford  turned  to  me,  and  asked:  'What  says  a  Nevile  to  the 
application?"  'Faith,  lady,'  said  I,  'the  Nevile  poppies  have 
oak  stems.'  Believe  me,  Hastings,  these  Woodvilles  may 
grieve  and  wrong  and  affront  Lord  Warwick,  but  woe  to  all 
the  pigmy  goaders  when  the  lion  turns  at  bay." 

With  this  solemn  menace  Montagu  quitted  Hastings,  and 
passed  on,  leaning  upon  Marmaduke,  and  with  a  gloomy 
brow. 

At  th»  gate  of  the  palace  waited  the  Lord  Montagu's  palfrey 
and  his  retinue  of  twenty  squires  and  thirty  grooms.  "Mount, 
Master  Marmaduke,  and  take  thy  choice  among  these  steeds, 
for  we  shall  ride  alone.  There  is  no  Nevile  amongst  these 
gentlemen."  Marmaduke  obeyed.  The  Earl  dismissed  his 
retinue,  and  in  little  more  than  ten  minutes — so  different,  then, 
was  the  extent  of  the  metropolis — the  noble  and  the  squire 
were  amidst  the  open  fields. 

They  had  gone  several  miles,  at  a  brisk  trot,  before  the  Earl 
opened  his  lips,  and  then,  slackening  his  pace,  he  said  abruptly : 
"How  dost  thou  like  the  King  ?  Speak  out,  youth;  there  are 
no  eavesdroppers  here." 

"He  is  a  most  gracious  master,  and  a  most  winning  gen- 
tleman." 

"He  is  both,"  said  Montagu,  with  a  touch  of  emotion,  that 
surprised  Marmaduke,  "and  no  man  can  come  near  without 
loving  him.  And  yet,  Marmaduke  (is  that  thy  name?) — yet, 
whether  it  be  weakness  or  falseness,  no  man  can  be  sure  of  his 
king's  favor  from  day  to  day!  We  Neviles  must  hold  fast  to 
each  other.  Not  a  stick  should  be  lost  if  the  faggot  is  to  re- 


THE    LAST    Of    THE    BARONS.  195 

main   unbroken.     What  say   you?"  and  the  Earl's  keen   eye 
turned  sharply  on  the  young  man. 

"I  say,  my  lord,  that  the  Earl  of  Warwick  was  to  me  pa- 
tron, lord,  and  father,  when  I  entered  yon  city  a  friendless 
orphan;  and  that,  though  I  covet  honors,  and  love  pleasure, 
and  would  be  loth  to  lift  finger  or  speak  word  against  King 
Edward,  yet  were  that  princely  lord — the  head  of  mine  house — 
an  outcast  and  a  beggar,  by  his  side  I  would  wander,  for  his 
bread  I  would  beg!" 

"Young  man,"  exclaimed  Montagu,  "from  this  hour  I  admit 
thee  to  my  heart!  Give  me  thy  hand.  Beggar  and  outcast? 
No!  If  the  storm  come,  the  meaner  birds  take  to  shelter,  the 
eagle  remains  solitary  in  heaven!"  So  saying,  he  relapsed  into 
silence,  and  put  spurs  to  his  steed. 

Towards  the  decline  of  day  they  drew  near  to  the  favorite 
palace  of  the  Archbishop  of  York.  There,  the  features  of  the 
country  presented  a  more  cultivated  aspect  than  it  had  hitherto 
worn.  For  at  that  period  the. lands  of  the  churchmen  were 
infinitely  in  advance  of  those  of  the  laity,  in  the  elementary 
arts  of  husbandry,  partly  because  the  ecclesiastic  proprietors 
had  greater  capital  at  their  command,  partly  because  their 
superior  learning  had  taught  them  to  avail  themselves,  in  some 
measure,  of  the  instructions  of  the  Latin  writers.  Still  the  pre- 
vailing characteristic  of  the  scenery  was  pasture  land — im- 
mense tracts  of  common  supported  flocks  of  sheep ;  the  fra- 
grance of  new-mown  hay  breathed  sweet  from  many  a  sunny 
field.  In  the  rear,  stretched  woods  of  Druid  growth ;  and  in 
the  narrow  lanes,  that  led  to  unfrequent  farms  and  homesteads, 
built  almost  entirely  either  of  wood  or  (more  primitive  still)  of 
mud  and  clay,  profuse  weeds,  brambles,  and  wild  flowers  al- 
most concealed  the  narrow  pathway,  never  intended  for  cart 
or  wagon,  and  arrested  the  slow  path  of  the  ragged  horse 
bearing  the  scanty  produce  of  acres  to  yard  or  mill.  But, 
though  to  the  eye  of  an  economist  or  philanthropist,  broad 
England  now,  with  its  variegated  agriculture,  its  wide  roads, 
its  whitewalled  villas,  and  numerous  towns,  may  present  a 
more  smiling  countenance,  to  the  early  lover  of  Nature,  fresh 
from  the  childlike  age  of  poetry  and  romance,  the  rich  and 
lovely  verdure  which  gave  to  our  mother-country  the  name  of 
"Green  England";  its  wild  woods  and  covert  alleys,  proffer- 
ing adventure  to  fancy;  its  tranquil  heaths,  studded  with 
peaceful  flocks,  and  vocal,  from  time  to  time,  with  the  rude 
scrannel  of  the  shepherd,  had  a  charm  which  we  can  under 
stand  alone  by  the  luxurious  reading  of  our  elder  writers.  For 


!p6  THE    LAST    OK    Till'.    liAKONS. 

*he  country  itself  ministered  to  that  mingled  fancy  and  con- 
templation which  the  stirring  and  ambitious  life  of  towns  and 
civilization  has  in  much  banished  from  our  later  literature. 

Even  the  thoughtful  Montagu  relaxed  his  brow  as  he  gazed 
around,  and  he  said  to  Marmaduke,  in  a  gentle  and  subdued 
voice: 

"Methinks,  young  cousin,  that  in  such  scenes,  those  silly 
rhymes,  taught  us  in  our  childhood,  of  the  green  woods  and 
the  summer  cuckoos,  of  bold  Robin  and  Maid  Marian  ring 
back  in  our  ears.  Alas,  that  this  fair  land  should  be  so  often 
dyed  in  the  blood  of  her  own  children !  Here,  how  the 
thought  shrinks  from  broils  and  war — civil  war — war  between 
brother  and  brother,  son  and  father!  In  the  city  and  the 
court,  we  forget  others  overmuch,  from  the  too  keen  memory 
of  ourselves." 

Scarcely  had  Montagu  said  these  words,  before  there  sud- 
denly emerged  from  a  bosky  lane  to  the  right  a  man  mounted 
upon  a  powerful  roan  horse.  His  dress  was  that  of  a  substan- 
tial franklin;  a  green  surtout  of  broadcloth,  over  a  tight  vest 
of  the  same  color,  left,  to  the  admiration  of  a  soldierly  eye,  an 
expanse  of  chest  that  might  have  vied  with  the  mighty  strength 
of  Warwick  himself.  A  cap,  somewhat  like  a  turban,  fell  in 
two  ends  over  the  left  cheek,  till  they  touched  the  shoulder, 
and  the  upper  part  of  the  visage  was  concealed  by  a  half  viz- 
ard, not  unfrequently  worn  out  of  doors  with  such  head-gear, 
as  a  shade  from  the  sun.  Behind  this  person  rode,  on  a  horse 
equally  powerful,  a  man  of  shorter  stature,  but  scarcely  less 
muscular  a  frame,  clad  in  a  leathern  jerkin,  curiously  fastened 
with  thongs,  and  wearing  a  steel  bonnet,  projecting  far  over 
the  face. 

The  foremost  of  these  strangers,  coming  thus  unawares  upon 
the  courtiers,  reined  in  his  steed,  and  said,  in  a  clear,  full 
voice:  "Good-evening  to  you,  my  masters.  It  is  not  often 
that  these  roads  witness  riders  in  silk  and  pile." 

"Friend,"  quoth  the  Montagu,  "may  the  peace  we  enjoy 
under  the  White  Rose  increase  the  number  of  all  travellers 
through  our  land,  whether  in  pile  or  russet!" 

"Peace,  sir!"  returned  the  horseman  roughly — "peace  is 
no  blessing  to  poor  men,  unless  it  bring  something  more  than 
life — the  means  to  live  in  security  and  ease.  Peace  hath  done 
nothing  for  the  poor  of  England.  Why,  look  you  towards  yon 
gray  tower, — the  owner  is,  forsooth,  gentleman  and  knight; 
but  yesterday,  he  and  his  men  broke  open  a  yeoman's  house, 
carried  off  his  wife  and  daughters  to  his  tower,  and  refuseth  to 


THE  LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  Ip7 

surrender  them  till  ransomed  by  half  the  year's  produce  on  the 
yeoman's  farm." 

"A  caitiff,  and  illegal  act,"  said  Montagu. 

"Illegal!  But  the  law  will  notice  it  not — why  should  it? 
Unjust,  if  it  punish  the  knight,  and  dare  not  touch  the  King's 
brother!" 

"How,  sir?" 

"I  say  the  King's  brother.  Scarcely  a  month  since  twenty- 
four  persons,  under  George,  Duke  of  Clarence,  entered  by  force 
a  lady's  house,  and  seized  her  jewels  and  her  money,  upon 
some  charge,  God  wot,  of  contriving  mischief  to  the  boy- 
duke.*  Are  not  the  Commons  ground  by  imposts  for  the 
Queen's  kindred?  Are  not  the  King's  officers  and  purveyors 
licensed  spoilers  and  rapiners?  Are  not  the  old  chivalry  ban- 
ished for  new  upstarts?  And  in  all  this,  is  peace  better  than 
war?" 

"Knowest  thou  not  that  these  words  are  death,  man?" 

"Ay,  in  the  city!  but  in  the  fields  and  waste,  thought  is 
free.  Frown  not,  my  lord.  Ah!  I  know  you;  and  the  time 
may  come  when  the  baron  will  act  what  the  franklin  speaks. 
What!  think  you  I  see  not  the  signs  of  the  storm?  Are  War- 
wick and  Montagu  more  safe  with  Edward  than  they  were  with 
Henry?  Look  to  thyself!  Charolois  will  outwit  King  Louis, 
and  ere  the  year  be  out,  the  young  Margaret  of  England  will 
be  lady  of  your  brave  brother's  sternest  foe!" 

"And  who  art  thou,  knave?"  cried  Montagu,  aghast,  and 
laying  his  gloved  hand  on  the  bold  prophet's  bridle. 

"One  who  has  sworn  the  fall  of  the  House  of  York,  and  may 
live  to  fight,  side  by  side,  in  that  cause  with  Warwick;  for 
Warwick,  whatever  be  his  faults,  has  an  English  heart,  and 
loves  the  Commons." 

Montagu,  uttering  an  exclamation  of  astonishment,  relaxed 
hold  of  the  franklin's  bridle;  and  the  latter  waved  his  hand, 
and  spurring  his  steed  across  the  wild  chain  of  commons,  dis- 
appeared with  his  follower. 

"A  sturdy  traitor!"  muttered  the  Earl,  following  him  with 
his  eye.  "One  of  the  exiled  Lancasterian  lords,  perchance. 
Strange  how  they  pierce  into  our  secrets!  Heardst  thou  that 
fellow,  Marmaduke?" 

"Only  in  a  few  sentences,  and  those  brought  my  hand  to  my 
dagger.  But  as  thou  madest  no  sign,  I  thought  his  Grace  the 
King  could  not  be  much  injured  by  empty  words." 

*  See  for  this  and  other  instances  of  the  prevalent  contempt  of  law  in  the  reign  of 
Edward  IV.,  and,  indeed,  during  the  fifteenth  century,  the  extracts  from  the  Parliamentary 
Rolls,  quoted  by  Sharon  Turner,  "  History  of  England,"  vol.  iii.,  p.  399. 


198  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"True!   and  misfortune  has  ever  a  shrewish  tongue." 

"An"  it  please  you,  my  lord,"  quoth  Marmaduke,  "I  have 
seen  the  man  before,  and  it  seemeth  to  me  that  he  holds  much 
power  over  the  rascal  rabble."  And  here  Marmaduke  narrated 
the  attack  upon  Warner's  house,  and  how  it  was  frustrated  by 
the  intercession  of  Robin  of  Redesdale. 

"Art  thou  sure  it  is  the  same  man,  for  his  face  was  masked?" 

"My  lord,  in  the  north,  as  thou  knowest,  we  recognize  men 
by  their  forms,  not  faces,  as,  in  truth,  we  ought,  seeing  that  it 
is  the  sinews  and  bulk,  not  the  lips  and  nose,  that  make  a  man 
a  useful  friend  or  a  dangerous  foe." 

Montagu  smiled  at  this  soldierly  simplicity. 

"And  heard  you  the  name  the  raptrils  shouted?" 

"Robin,  my  lord.  They  cried  out  'Robin,'  as  if  it  had  been 
a  'Montagu'  or  a  'Warwick.'  ' 

"Robin!  Ah,  then,  I  guess  the  man — a  most  perilous  and 
staunch  Lancastrian.  He  has  more  weight  with  the  poor  than 
had  Cade  the  rebel,  and  they  say  Margaret  trusts  him  as  much 
as  she  doth  an  Exeter  or  Somerset.  I  marvel  that  he  should 
show  himself  so  near  the  gates  of  London.  It  must  be  looked 
to.  But  come,  cousin.  Our  steeds  are  breathed — let  us  on!" 

On  arriving  at  the  More,  its  stately  architecture,  embellished 
by  the  prelate  with  a  fa9ade  of  double  arches,  painted  and 
blazoned  somewhat  in  the  fashion  of  certain  old  Italian  houses, 
much  dazzled  Marmaduke.  And  the  splendor  of  the  arch- 
bishop's retinue — less  martial,  indeed,  than  Warwick's — was 
yet  more  imposing  to  the  common  eye.  Every  office  that 
pomp  could  devise  for  a  king's  court  was  to  be  found  in  the 
household  of  this  magnificent  prelate — master  of  the  horse  and 
the  hounds,  chamberlain,  treasurer,  pursuivant,  herald,  senes- 
chal, captain  of  the  body  guard,  etc. — and  all  emulously  sought 
for  and  proudly  held  by  gentlemen  of  the  first  blood  and  birth. 
His  mansion  was  at  once  a  court  for  middle  life,  a  school  for 
youth,  an  asylum  for  age ;  and  thither,  as  to  a  Medici,  fled  the 
letters  and  the  arts. 

Through  corridor  and  hall,  lined  with  pages  and  squires, 
passed  Montagu  and  Marmaduke,  till  they  gained  a  quaint 
garden,  the  wonder  and  envy  of  the  time,  planned  by  an  Ital- 
ian of  Mantua,  and  perhaps  the  stateliest  one  of  the  kind  exis- 
tent in  England.  Straight  walks,  terraces,  and  fountains, 
clipped  trees,  green  alleys  and  smooth  bowling-greens 
abounded,  but  the  flowers  were  few  and  common ;  and  if  here 
and  there  a  statue  might  be  found,  it  possessed  none  of  the  art 
so  admirable  in  our  earliest  ecclesiastical  architecture,  but  its 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  199 

clumsy  proportions  were  made  more  uncouth  by  a  profusion  of 
barbaric  painting  and  gilding.  The  fountains,  however,  were 
especially  curious,  diversified,  and  elaborate:  some  shot  up  as 
pyramids,  others  coiled  in  undulating  streams,  each  jet  chasing 
the  other  as  serpents;  some,  again,  branched  off  in  the  form  of 
trees,  while  mimic  birds,  perched  upon  leaden  boughs,  poured 
water  from  their  bills.  Marmaduke,  much  astounded  and  be- 
wildered, muttered  a  paternoster  in  great  haste ;  and  even  the 
clerical  rank  of  the  prelate  did  not  preserve  him  from  the  sus- 
picion of  magical  practices  in  the  youth's  mind. 

Remote  from  all  his  train,  in  a  little  arbor  overgrown  with 
the  honeysuckle  and  white  rose,  a  small  table  before  him  bear- 
ing fruits,  confectionery,  and  spiced  wines  (for  the  prelate  was 
a  celebrated  epicure,  though  still  in  the  glow  of  youth),  they 
found  George  Nevile,  reading  lazily  a  Latin  MS. 

"Well,  my  dear  lord  and  brother,"  said  Montagu,  laying  his 
arm  on  the  prelate's  shoulder,  "first  let  me  present  to  thy  favor 
a  gallant  youth,  Marmaduke  Nevile,  worthy  his  name,  and  thy 
love." 

"He  is  welcome,  Montagu,  to  our  poor  house,"  said  the 
Archbishop,  rising,  and  complacently  glancing  at  his  palace, 
splendidly  gleaming  through  the  trellis-work.  '  "  Puer  ingenui 
vicltfis.'  Thou  art  acquainted,  doubtless,  young  sir,  with  the 
Humaner  Letters?" 

"Well-a-day,  my  lord,  my  nurturing  was  somewhat  neglected 
in  the  province,"  said  Marmaduke,  disconcerted,  and  deeply 
blushing,  "and  only  of  late  have  I  deemed  the  languages  fit 
study  for  those  not  reared  for  our  Mother  Church." 

"Fie,  sir,  fie!  Correct  that  error,  I  pray  thee.  Latin 
teaches  the  courtier  how  to  thrive,  the  soldier  how  to  manoeuvre, 
the  husbandman  how  to  sow ;  and  if  we  churchmen  are  more 
cunning,  as  the  profane  call  us  (and  the  prelate  smiled),  than 
ye  of  the  laity,  the  Latin  must  answer  for  the  sins  of  our 
learning." 

With  this,  the  Archbishop  passed  his  arm  affectionately 
through  his  brother's,  and  said:  "Beshrew  me,  Montagu,  thou 
lookest  worn  and  weary.  Surely  thou  lackest  food,  and  supper 
shall  be  hastened.  Even  I,  who  have  but  slender  appetite, 
grow  hungered  in  these  cool  gloaming  hours." 

"Dismiss  my  comrade,  George — I  would  speak  to  thee," 
whispered  Montagu. 

"Thou  knowest  not  Latin?"  said  the  Archbishop,  turning 
with  a  compassionate  eye  to  Nevile,  whose  own  eye  was  amor- 
ously fixed  on  the  delicate  confectioneries — "never  too  late  to 


200  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

learn.  Hold,  here  is  a  grammar  of  the  verbs,  that,  with  mine 
own  hand,  I  have  drawn  up  for  youth.  Study  thine  anw  and 
thy  monfo,  while  I  confer  on  church  matters  with  giddy  Mon- 
tagu. I  shall  expect,  ere  we  sup,  that  thou  wilt  have  mastered 
the  first  tenses." 

"But—" 

"Oh,  nay,  nay;  but  me  no  buts.  Thou  art  too  tough,  I 
fear  me,  for  flagellation,  a  wondrous  improver  of  tender  youth," 
and  the  prelate  forced  his  grammar  into  the  reluctant  hands  of 
Marmaduke,  and  sauntered  down  one  of  the  solitary  alleys  with 
his  brother. 

Long  and  earnest  was  their  conference,  and  at  one  time  keen 
were  their  disputes. 

The  Archbishop  had  very  little  of  the  energy  of  Montagu  or 
the  impetuosity  of  Warwick,  but  he  had  far  more  of  what  we 
now  call  wind,  as  distinct  from  talent,  than  either;  that  is,  he 
had  not  their  capacities  for  action,  but  he  had  a  judgment  and 
sagacity  that  made  him  considered  a  wise  and  sound  adviser : 
this  he  owed  principally  to  the  churchman's  love  of  ease,  and 
to  his  freedom  from  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  passions  which 
gnawed  the  great  minister  and  the  aspiring  courtier;  his  natu- 
ral intellect  was  also  fostered  by  much  learning.  George 
Nevile  had  been  reared,  by  an  Italian  ecclesiastic,  in  all  the 
subtle  diplomacy  of  the  Church ;  and  his  ambition,  despising 
lay  objects  (though  he  consented  to  hold  the  office  of  chancel- 
lor), was  concentrated  in  that  kingdom  over  kings  which  had 
animated  the  august  dominators  of  religious  Rome.  Though, 
as  we  have  said,  still  in  that  age  when  the  affections  are  usually 
vivid,*  George  Nevile  loved  no  human  creature — not  even  his 
brothers;  not  even  King  Edward,  who,  with  all  his  vices,  pos- 
sessed so  eminently  the  secret  that  wins  men's  hearts.  His 
early  and  entire  absorption  in  the  great  religious  community, 
which  stood  apart  from  the  laymen  in  order  to  control  them, 
alienated  him  from  his  kind;  and  his  superior  instruction  only 
served  to  feed  him  with  a  calm  and  icy  contempt  for  all  that 
prejudice,  as  he  termed  it,  held  dear  and  precious  He  de- 
spised the  knight's  wayward  honor,  the  burgher's  crafty  hon- 
esty. For  him  no  such  thing  as  principle  existed;  and  con- 
science itself  lay  dead  in  the  folds  of  a  fancied  exemption  from 
all  responsibility  to  the  dull  herd,  that  were  but  as  wool  and 
meat  to  the  Churchman-Shepherd.  But  withal,  if  somewhat  pe- 
dantic, he  had  in  his  manner  a  suavity  and  elegance  and  pol- 

*  He  was  consecrated  Bishop  of  Exeter  at  the  age  of  twenty,  at  twenty-six  he  became 
Archbishop  of  York,  and  was  under  thirty  at  the  time  referred  to  in  the  text. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  2OI 

ish,  which  suited  well  his  high  station,  and  gave  persuasion  to 
his  counsels.  In  all  externals,  he  was  as  little  like  a  priest  as 
the  high-born  prelates  of  that  day  usually  were.  In  dress  he 
rivalled  the  fopperies  of  the  Plantagenet  brothers.  In  the 
chase  he  was  more  ardent  than  Warwick  had  been  in  his  earlier 
youth ;  and  a  dry,  sarcastic  humor,  sometimes  elevated  into  wit, 
gave  liveliness  to  his  sagacious  converse. 

Montagu  desired  that  the  Archbishop  and  himself  should  de- 
mand solemn  audience  of  Edward,  and  gravely  remonstrate 
with  the  King  on  the  impropriety  of  receiving  the  brother  of 
a  rival  suitor,  while  Warwick  was  negotiating  the  marriage  of 
Margaret  with  a  prince  of  France. 

"Nay,"  said  the  Archbishop,  with  a  bland  smile,  that  fretted 
Montagu  to  the  quick,  "surely,  even  a  baron,  a  knight,  a 
franklin,  a  poor  priest  like  myself,  would  rise  against  the  man 
who  dictated  to  his  hospitality.  Is  a  king  less  irritable  than 
baron,  knight,  franklin,  and  priest?  Or  rather,  being,  as  it 
were,  per  legetn,  lord  of  all,  hath  he  not  irritability  eno'  for 
all  four?  Ay,  tut  and  tush  as  thou  wilt,  John,  but  thy  sense 
must  do  justice  to  my  counsel  at  the  last.  I  know  Edward 
well;  he  hath  something  of  mine  own  idlesse  and  ease  of  tem- 
per, but  with  more  of  the  dozing  lion  than  priests,  who  have 
only,  look  you,  the  mildness  of  the  dove.  Prick  up  his  higher 
spirit,  not  by  sharp  remonstrance,  but  by  seeming  trust.  Ob- 
serve to  him,  with  thy  gay,  careless  laugh — which,  methinks, 
thou  hast  somewhat  lost  of  late — that  with  any  other  prince 
Warwick  might  suspect  some  snare — some  humiliating  over- 
throw of  his  embassage — but  that  all  men  know  how  steadfast 
in  faith  and  honor  is  Edward  IV." 

"Truly,"  said  Montagu,  with  a  forced  smile,  "you  under' 
stand  mankind ;  but  yet,  bethink  you — suppose  this  fail,  and 
Warwick  return  to  England  to  hear  that  he  hath  been  cajoled 
and  fooled;  that  the  Margaret  he  hath  crossed  the  seas  to  affi- 
ance to  the  brother  of  Louis  is  betrothed  to  Charolois — bethink 
you,  I  say,  what  manner  of  heart  beats  under  our  brother's 
mail." 

"Impiger,  iracundus!"  said  the  Archbishop;  "a  very 
Achilles,  to  whom  our  English  Agamemnon,  if  he  cross  him, 
is  a  baby.  All  this  is  sad  truth;  our  parents  spoilt  him  in  his 
childhood,  and  glory  in  his  youth,  and  wealth,  power,  success, 
in  his  manhood.  Ay,  if  Warwick  be  chafed,  it  will  be  as  the 
stir  of  the  sea-serpent,  which,  according  to  the  Icelanders, 
moves  a  world.  Still  the  best  way  to  prevent  the  danger  is  to 
enlist  the  honor  of  the  King  in  his  behalf — to  show  that  our 


2C2  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

eyes  are  open,  but  that  we  disdain  to  doubt,  and  are  frank  to 
confide.  Meanwhile  send  messages  and  warnings  privately  to 
Warwick." 

These  reasonings  finally  prevailed  with  Montagu,  and  the 
brothers  returned  with  one  mind  to  the  house.  Here,  as  after 
their  ablutions,  they  sate  down  to  the  evening  meal,  the  Arch- 
bishop remembered  poor  Marmaduke,  and  despatched  to  him 
one  of  his  thirty  household  chaplains.  Marmaduke  was  found 
fast  asleep  over  the  second  tense  of  the  verb  amo. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  ARRIVAL  OF  THE  COUNT  DE  LA  ROCHE,  AND  THE  VARIOUS 
EXCITEMENT  PRODUCED  ON  MANY  PERSONAGES  BY  THAT 
EVENT. 

THE  prudence  of  the  Archbishop's  counsel  was  so  far  made 
manifest,  that  on  the  next  day  Montagu  found  all  remonstrance 
would  have  been  too  late.  The  Count  de  la  Roche  had  al- 
ready landed,  and  was  on  his  way  to  London.  The  citizens, 
led  by  Rivers  partially  to  suspect  the  object  of  the  visit,  were 
delighted  not  only  by  the  prospect  of  a  brilliant  pageant,  but 
by  the  promise  such  a  visit  conveyed  of  a  continued  peace  with 
their  commercial  ally;  and  the  preparations  made  by  the 
wealthy  merchants  increased  the  bitterness  and  discontent  of 
Montagu.  At  length,  at  the  head  of  a  gallant  and  princely 
retinue,  the  Count  de  la  Roche  entered  London.  Though 
Hastings  made  no  secret  of  his  distaste  to  the  Count  de  la 
Roche's  visit,  it  became  his  office  as  lord  chamberlain  to  meet 
the  Count  at  Blackwall,  and  escort  him  and  his  train,  in  gilded 
barges,  to  the  palace. 

In  the  great  hall  of  the  Tower,  in  which  the  story  of  Antio- 
chus  was  painted,  by  the  great  artists  employed  under  Henry 
III.,  and  on  the  elevation  of  the  dais,  behind  which,  across 
Gothic  columns,  stretched  draperies  of  cloth  of  gold,  was 
placed  Edward's  chair  of  state.  Around  him  were  grouped 
the  Dukes  of  Clarence  and  Gloucester,  the  Lords  Worcester, 
Montagu,  Rivers,  D'Eyncourt,  St.  John,  Raoul  de  Fulke,  and 
others.  But  at  the  threshold  of  the  chamber  stood  Anthony 
Woodville,  the  knightly  challenger,  his  knee  bound  by  the 
ladye-badge  of  the  S.S.,  and  his  fine  person  clad  in  white- 
flovered  velvet  of  Genoa,  adorned  with  pearls.  Stepping  for- 
ward, as  the  Count  appeared,  the  gallant  Englishman  bent  his 
knee  half-way  to  the  ground,  and  raising  the  Count's  hand  to 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS  2OJ 

his  lips,  said  in  French:  "Deign,  noble  sir,  to  accept  the  grati- 
tude of  one  who  were  not  worthy  of  encounter  from  so  peerless 
a  hand,  save  by  the  favor  of  the  ladies  of  England,  and  your 
own  courtesy,  which  ennobles  him  whom  it  stoops  to."  So 
saying,  he  led  the  Count  towards  the  King. 

De  la  Roche,  an  experienced  and  profound  courtier,  and 
justly  deserving  Hall's  praise  as  a  man  of  "great  witte,  cour- 
age, valiantness,  and  liberalise,"  did  not  affect  to  conceal  the 
admiration  which  the  remarkable  presence  of  Edward  never 
failed  to  excite ;  lifting  his  hand  to  his  eyes,  as  if  to  shade 
them  from  a  sudden  blaze  of  light,  he  would  have  fallen  on 
both  knees,  but  Edward  with  quick  condescension  raised  him, 
and,  rising  himself,  said  gayly : 

"Nay,  Count  de  la  Roche,  brave  and  puissant  chevalier, 
who  hath  crossed  the  seas  in  honor  of  knighthood  and  the 
ladies,  we  would,  indeed,  that  our  roiaulme  boasted  a  lord  like 
thee,  from  whom  we  might  ask  such  homage.  But  since  thou 
art  not  our  subject,  it  consoles  us  at  least  that  thou  art  our 
guest.  By  our  halidame,  Lord  Scales,  thou  must  look  well  to 
thy  lance  and  thy  steeds'  girths,  for  never,  I  trow,  hast  thou 
met  a  champion  of  goodlier  strength  and  knightlier  metal." 

"My  lord  King,"  answered  the  Count,  "I  fear  me,  indeed, 
that  a  knight  like  the  Sieur  Anthony,  who  fights  under  the 
eyes  of  such  a  king,  will  prove  invincible.  Did  kings  enter 
the  lists  with  kings,  where,  through  broad  Christendom,  find  a 
compeer  for  your  Highness?" 

"Your  brother,  Sir  Count,  if  fame  lies  not,"  returned  Ed- 
ward,  slightly  laughing,  and  lightly  touching  the  bastard's 
shoulder,  "were  a  fearful  lance  to  encounter,  even  though 
Charlemagne  himself  were  to  revive,  with  his  twelve  paladins 
at  his  back.  Tell  us,  Sir  Count, "  added  the  King,  drawing 
himself  up — "tell  us,  for  we  soldiers  are  curious  in  such  mat- 
ters, hath  not  the  Count  of  Charolois  the  advantage  of  all  here 
in  sinews  and  stature?" 

"Sire,"  returned  De  la  Roche,  "my  princely  brother  is  in- 
deed mighty  with  the  brand  and  battle-axe,  but  your  Grace  is 
taller  by  half  the  head ;  and,  peradventure,  of-  even  a  more 
stalwart  build,  but  that  mere  strength  in  Your  Highness  is  not 
that  gift  of  God  which  strikes  the  beholder  most." 

Edward  smiled  good-humoredly  at  a  compliment,  the  truth 
of  which  was  too  obvious  to  move  much  vanity,  and  said, 
with  a  royal  and  knightly  grace:  "Our  House  of  York  hath 
been  taught,  Sir  Count,  to  estimate  men's  beauty  by  men's 
deeds,  and  therefore  the  Count  of  Charolois  hath  long  been 


204  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

known  to  us,  who,  alas,  have  seen  him  not,  as  the  fairest  gen« 
tleman  in  Europe.  My  Lord  Scales,  we  must  here  publicly 
crave  your  pardon.  Our  brother-in-law,  Sir  Count,  would 
fain  have  claimed  his  right  to  hold  you  his  guest,  and  have 
graced  himself  by  exclusive  service  to  your  person.  We  have 
taken  from  him  his  lawful  office,  for  we  kings  are  jealous,  and 
would  not  have  -our  subjects  more  honored  than  ourselves." 
Edward  turned  round  to  his  courtiers  as  he  spoke,  and  saw 
that  his  last  words  had  called  a  haughty  and  angry  look  to  the 
watchful  countenance  of  Montagu.  "Lord  Hastings,"  he 
continued,  "to  your  keeping,  as  our  representative,  we  intrust 
this  gentleman.  He  must  need  refreshment,  ere  we  present 
him  to  our  Queen." 

The  Count  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  reverently  withdrew 
from  the  royal  presence,  accompanied  by  Hastings.  Edward 
then,  singling  Anthony  Woodville  and  Lord  Rivers  from  the 
group,  broke  up  the  audience,  and,  followed  by  those  two 
noblemen,  quitted  the  hall. 

Montagu,  whose  countenance  had  recovered  the  dignified 
and  high-born  calm  habitual  to  it,  turned  to  the  Duke  of 
Clarence,  and  observed  indifferently:  "The  Count  de  la 
Roche  hath  a  goodly  mien,  and  a  fair  tongue." 

"Pest  on  these  Burgundians!"  answered  Clarence,  in  an 
undertone,  and  drawing  Montagu  aside.  "I  would  wager  my 
best  greyhound  to  a  scullion's  cur,  that  our  English  knights 
will  lower  their  burgonots." 

"Nay,  sir,  an  idle  holiday  show.  What  matters  whose  lance 
breaks,  or  whose  destrier  stumbles?" 

"Will  you  not  yourself,  Cousin  Montagu — you,  who  are  so 
peerless  in  the  joust — take  part  in  the  fray?" 

"I,  your  Highness — I,  the  brother  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick, 
whom  this  pageant  hath  been  devised  by  the  Woodvilles  to 
mortify  and  disparage  in  his  solemn  embassy  to  Burgundy's 
mightiest  foe! — I!" 

"Sooth  to  say,"  said  the  young  Prince,  much  embarrassed, 
"it  grieves  me  sorely  to  hear  thee  speak  as  if  Warwick  would 
be  angered  at  this  pastime.  For  look  you,  Montagu — I,  think- 
ing only  of  my  hate  to  Burgundy,  and  my  zeal  for  our  English 
honor,  have  consented,  as  high  constable,  and  despite  my 
grudge  to  the  Woodvilles,  to  bear  the  bassinet  of  our  own 
champion — and — " 

"Saints  in  heaven!"  exclaimed  Montagu,  with  a  burst  of 
his  fierce  brother's  temper,  which  he  immediately  checked,  and 
changed  into  a  torje  that  concealed,  beneath  outward  respect, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  2O$ 

the  keenest  irony,  "I  crave  your  pardon,  humbly,  for  my 
vehemence,  Prince  of  Clarence.  I  suddenly  remember  me  that 
humility  is  the  proper  virtue  of  knighthood.  Your  Grace  does 
indeed  set  a  notable  example  of  that  virtue  to  the  peers  of  Eng- 
land; and  my  poor  brother's  infirmity  of  pride  will  stand  re- 
buked for  aye,  when  he  hears  that  George  Plantagenet  bore  the 
bassinet  of  Antony  Woodville." 

"But  it  is  for  the  honor  of  the  ladies, "said  Clarence  falter- 
ingly,  "in  honor  of  the  fairest  maid  of  all — the  flower  of  Eng- 
lish beauty — the  Lady  Isabel — that  I — " 

"Your  Highness  will  pardon  me,"  interrupted  Montagu, 
"but  I  do  trust  to  your  esteem  for  our  poor  and  insulted  house 
of  Nevile,  so  far  as  to  be  assured  that  the  name  of  my  niece, 
Isabel,  will  not  be  submitted  to  the  ribald  comments  of  a  base- 
born  Burgundian." 

"Then  I  will  break  no  lance  in  the  lists!" 

"As  it  likes  you,  Prince,"  replied  Montagu  shortly;  and, 
with  a  low  bow,  he  quitted  the  chamber,  and  was  striding  to 
the  outer  gate  of  the  Tower,  when  a  sweet,  clear  voice  behind 
him  called  him  by  his  name.  He  turned  abruptly,  to  meet 
the  dark  eye  and  all-subduing  smile  of  the  boy-Duke  of 
Gloucester. 

"A  word  with  you,  Montagu — noblest  and  most  prized,  with 
your  princely  brothers,  of  the  champions  of  our  house — I  read 
your  generous  indignation  with  our  poor  Clarence.  Ay,  sir! 
ay! — it  was  a  weakness  in  him  that  moved  even  me.  But  you 
have  not  now  to  learn  that  his  nature,  how  excellent  soever,  is 
somewhat  unsteady.  His  judgment  alone  lacks  weight  and  sub- 
stance— ever  persuaded  against  his  better  reason  by  those  who 
approach  his  infirmer  side.  But  if  it  be  true  that  our  cousin 
Warwick  intends  for  him  the  hand  of  the  peerless  Isabel,  wiser 
heads  will  guide  his  course." 

"My  brother,"  said  Montagu,  greatly  softened,  "is  much 
beholden  to  your  Highness  for  a  steady  countenance  and  friend- 
ship, for  which  I  also,  believe  me — and  the  families  of  Beau- 
champ,  Montagu,  and  Nevile — are  duly  grateful.  But  to  speak 
plainly  (which  your  Grace's  youthful  candor,  so  all-acknowl- 
edged, will  permit),  the  kinsmen  of  the  Queen  do  now  so  aspire 
to  rule  this  land,  to  marry  or  forbid  to  marry,  not  only  our  own 
children,  but  your  illustrious  father's,  that  I  foresee,  in  this 
visit  of  the  Bastard  Anthony,  the  most  signal  disgrace  to  War- 
wick that  ever  king  passed  upon  ambassador,  or  gentleman. 
And  this  moves  me  more! — yea,  I  vow  to  St.  George,  my  pa- 
tron, it  moves  me  more — by  the  thought  of  danger  to  your  royal 


2o6  THK    LAST    OF    THfc    BARONS. 

house,  than  by  the  grief  of  slight  to  mine;  for  Warwick — but 
you  know  him." 

"Montagu,  you  must  soothe  and  calm  your  brother  if  chafed. 
I  impose  that  task  on  your  love  for  us.  Alack,  would  that  Ed- 
ward listened  more  to  me  and  less  to  the  Queen's  kith — these 
Woodvilles !  And  yet  they  may  live  to  move  not  wrath  but 
pity.  If  aught  snapped  the  thread  of  Edward's  life  (Holy  Paul 
forbid ! )  what  would  chance  to  Elizabeth — her  brothers — her 
children?" 

"Her  children  would  mount  the  throne  that  our  right  hands 
built,"  said  Montagu  sullenly. 

"Ah!  think  you  so?  You  rejoice  me!  I  had  feared  that 
the  Barons  might,  that  the  Commons  would,  that  the  Church 
must,  pronounce  the  unhappy  truth,  that — but  you  look  amazed, 
my  lord!  Alas,  my  boyish  years  are  too  garrulous!" 

"I  catch  not  your  Highness's  meaning." 

"Pooh,  pooh!  By  St.  Paul,  your  seeming  dulness  proves 
your  loyalty  ;  but,  with  me,  the  King's  brother,  frankness  were 
safe.  Thou  knowest  well  that  the  King  was  betrothed  before 
to  the  Lady  Eleanor  Talbot ;  that  such  betrothal,  not  set  aside 
by  the  Pope,  renders  his  marriage  with  Elizabeth  against  law ; 
that  his  children  may  (would  to  Heaven  it  were  not  so ! )  be  set 
aside  as  bastards,  when  Edward's  life  no  longer  shields  them 
from  the  sharp  eyes  of  men." 

"Ah!"  said  Montagu  thoughtfully ;  "and  in  that  case,  George 
of  Clarence  would  wear  the  crown,  and  his  children  reign  in 
England." 

"Our  Lord  forefend,"  said  Richard,  "that  I  should  say  that 
Warwick  thought  of  this  when  he  deemed  George  worthy  of  the 
hand  of  Isabel.  Nay,  it  could  not  be  so;  for,  however  clear 
the  claim,  strong  and  powerful  would  be  those  who  would  resist 
it,  and  Clarence  is  not,  as  you  will  see,  the  man  who  can  wrestle 
boldly — even  for  a  throne.  Moreover,  he  is  too  addicted  to 
wine  and  pleasure  to  bid  fair  to  outlive  the  King." 

Montagu  fixed  his  penetrating  eyes  on  Richard,  but  dropped 
them,  abashed,  before  that  steady,  deep,  unrevealing  gaze, 
which  seemed  to  pierce  into  other  hearts,  and  show  nothing  of 
the  heart  within. 

"Happy  Clarence!"  resumed  the  Prince,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
and  after  a  brief  pause — "a  Nevile's  husband  and  a  Warwick's 
son !  What  can  the  saints  do  more  for  men?  You  must  excuse 
all  his  errors — to  your  brother.  You  may  not  know,  peradven- 
ture,  sweet  Montagu,  how  deep  an  interest  I  have  in  maintain- 
ing all  amitv  between  Lord  Warwick  and  th^  King.  For  me- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  207 

thinks  there  is  one  face  fairer  than  fair  Isabel's,  and  one  man 
more  to  be  envied  than  even  Clarence.  Fairest  face  to  me  in 
the  wide  world  is  the  Lady  Anne's — happiest  man,  between  the 
cradle  and  the  grave,  is  he  whom  the  Lady  Anne  shall  call  her 
lord!  And  if  I — oh,  look  you,  Montagu,  let  there  be  no 
breach  between  Warwick  and  the  King!  Fare  you  well,  dear 
lord  and  cousin — I  go  to  Baynard's  Castle  till  these  feasts  are 
over." 

"Does  not  your  Grace,"  said  Montagu,  recovering  from  the 
surprise  into  which  one  part  of  Gloucester's  address  had  thrown 
him — "does  not  your  Grace — so  skilled  in  lance  and  horse- 
manship— preside  at  the  lists?" 

"Montagu,  I  love  your  brother  well  enough  to  displease  my 
King.  The  great  Earl  shall  not  say,  at  least,  that  Richard  Plan- 
tagenet,  in  his  absence,  forgot  the  reverence  due  to  loyalty  and 
merit.  Tell  him  that;  and  if  I  seem  (unlike  Clarence)  to  for- 
bear to  confront  the  Queen  and  her  kindred,  it  is  because  youth 
should  make  no  enemies — not  the  less  for  that,  should  princes 
forget  no  friends." 

Richard  said  this  with  a  tone  of  deep  feeling,  and,  folding 
his  arms  within  his  furred  surcoat,  walked  slowly  on  to  a  small 
postern  admitting  to  the  river ;  but  there,  pausing  by  a  buttress 
which  concealed  him  till  Montagu  had  left  the  yard,  instead  of 
descending  to  his  barge,  he  turned  back  into  the  royal  garden. 
Here  several  of  the  court,  of  both  sexes,  were  assembled, 
conferring  on  the  event  of  the  day.  Richard  halted  at  a  dis- 
tance, and  contemplated  their  gay  dresses  and  animated  counte- 
nances with  something  between  melancholy  and  scorn  upon  his 
young  brow.  One  of  the  most  remakable  social  characteristics 
of  the  middle  ages  is  the  prematurity  at  which  the  great  ar- 
rived at  manhood,  shared  in  its  passions,  and  indulged  its  am- 
bitions. Among  the  numerous  instances  in  our  own  and  other 
countries  that  might  be  selected  from  history,  few  are  more 
striking  than  that  of  this  Duke  of  Gloucester — great  in  camp 
and  in  council,  at  an  age  when  nowadays  a  youth  is  scarcely 
trusted  to  the  discipline  of  a  college.  The  whole  of  his  por- 
tentous career  was  closed,  indeed,  before  the  public  life  of 
modern  ambition  usually  commences.  Little  would  those  ac- 
customed to  see,  on  our  stage,  "the  elderly  ruffian"  *  our  ac- 
tors represent,  imagine  that  at  the  opening  of  Shakspeare's 
play  of  "Richard  the  Third,"  the  hero  was  but  in  his  nine- 
teenth year;  but  at  the  still  more  juvenile  age  in  which  he  ap- 
pears in  this  our  record,  Richard  of  Gloucester  was  older  in 

*  Sharon  Turner. 


2o8  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

intellect,  and  almost  in  experience,  than  many  a  wise  man  at 
the  date  of  thirty-three — the  fatal  age  when  his  sun  set  forever 
on  the  field  of  Bosworth ! 

The  young  Prince,  then,  eyed  the  gaudy,  fluttering,  babbling 
assemblage  before  him  with  mingled  melancholy  and  scorn. 
Not  that  he  felt,  with  the  acuteness  which  belongs  to  modern 
sentiment,  his  bodily  defects  amidst  that  circle  of  the  stately 
and  the  fair,  for  they  were  not  of  a  nature  to  weaken  his  arm 
in  war  or  lessen  his  persausive  influences  in  peace.  But  it  was 
rather  that  sadness  which  so  often  comes  over  an  active  and 
ambitious  intellect  in  early  youth,  when  it  pauses  to  ask,  in  sor- 
row and  disdain,  what  its  plots  and  counterplots,  its  restless- 
ness and  strife,  are  really  worth.  The  scene  before  him  was  of 
pleasure;  but  in  pleasure,  neither  the  youth  nor  the  manhood 
of  Richard  III.  was  ever  pleased;  though  not  absolutely  of  the 
rigid  austerity  of  Amadis,  or  our  Saxon  Edward,  he  was  compar- 
atively free  from  the  licentiousness  of  his  times.  His  passions 
were  too  large  for  frivolous  excitements.  Already  the  Italian, 
or,  as  it  is  falsely  called,  the  Machiavelian,  policy  was  pervad- 
ing the  intellect  of  Europe,  and  the  effects  of  its  ruthless,  grand, 
and  deliberate  statecraft  are  visible  from  the  accession  of  Edward 
IV.,  till  the  close  of  Elizabeth's  reign.  With  this  policy,  which 
reconciled  itself  to  crime  as  a  necessity  of  wisdom,  was  often 
blended  a  refinement  of  character  which  disdained  vulgar  vices. 
Not  skilled  alone  in  those  knightly  accomplishments  which  in- 
duced Caxton,  with  propriety,  to  dedicate  to  Richard  "The 
Book  of  the  Order  of  Chivalry,"  the  Duke  of  Gloucester's  more 
peaceful  amusements  were  borrowed  from  severer  Graces  than 
those  which  presided  over  the  tastes  of  his  royal  brothers.  •  He 
loved,  even  to  passion,  the  Arts,  Music — especially  of  the  more 
Doric  and  warlike  kind-— Painting,  and  Architecture ;  he  was  a 
reader  of  books,  as  of  men — the  books  that  become  princes — 
and  hence  that  superior  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  law  and 
of  commerce  which  his  brief  reign  evinced.  More  like  an  Ital- 
ian in  all  things  than  the  careless  Norman  or  the  simple  Saxon, 
Machiavel  might  have  made  of  his  character  a  companion, 
though  a  contrast,  to  that  of  Castruccio  Castrucani. 

The  crowd  murmured  and  rustled  at  the  distance,  and  still, 
with  folded  arms,  Richard  gazed  aloof,  when  a  lady  entering 
the  garden  from  the  palace,  passed  by  him  so  hastily  that  she 
brushed  his  surcoat,  and,  turning  round  in  surprise,  made  a  low 
reverence  as  she  exclaimed :  ' '  Prince  Richard !  and  alone  amidst 
so  many!" 

"Lady,"  said  the  Duke,  "it  was  a  sudden  hope  that  brought 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  209 

me  into  this  garden — and  that  was  the  hope  to  see  your  fair 
face  shining  above  the  rest." 

"Your  Highness  jests, "  returned  the  lady,  though  her  superb 
countenance  and  haughty  carriage  evinced  no  opinion  of  herself 
so  humble  as  her  words  would  imply. 

"My  lady  of  Bonville,"  said  the  young  Duke,  laying  his 
hand  on  her  arm;  "mirth  is  not  in  my  thoughts  at  this  hour." 

"I  believe  your  Highness;  for  the  Lord  Richard  Plantage- 
net  is  not  one  of  the  Woodvilles.  The  mirth  is  theirs  to-day." 

"Let  who  will  have  mirth — it  is  the  breath  of  a  moment. 
Mirth  cannot  tarnish  Glory — the  mirror  in  which  the  gods  are 
glassed." 

"I  understand  you,  my  lord,"  said  the  proud  lady;  and  her 
face,  before  stern  and  high,  brightened  into  so  lovely  a  change, 
so  soft  and  winning  a  smile,  that  Gloucester  no  longer  mar- 
velled that  that  smile  had  rained  so  large  an  influence  on  the 
fate  and  heart  of  his  favorite  Hastings.  The  beauty  of  this 
noble  woman  was  indeed  remarkable  in  its  degree,  and  pecu- 
liar in  its  character.  She  bore  a  stronger  likeness  in  feature 
to  the  Archbishop,  than  to  either  of  her  other  brothers ;  for 
the  prelate  had  the  straight  and  smooth  outline  of  the  Greeks, 
not,  like  Montagu  and  Warwick,  the  lordlier  and  manlier 
aquiline  of  the  Norman  race,  and  his  complexion  was  femi- 
nine in  its  pale  clearness.  But  though  in  this  resembling  the 
subtlest  of  the  brethren,  the  fair  sister  shared  with  Warwick 
an  expression,  if  haughty,  singularly  frank  and  candid  in 
its  imperious  majesty;  she  had  the  same  splendid  and  steady 
brilliancy  of  eye,  the  same  quick  quiver  of  the  lip,  speak- 
ing of  nervous  susceptibility  and  haste  of  mood.  The  hateful 
fashion  of  that  day,  which  pervaded  all  ranks,  from  the  highest 
to  the  lowest,  was  the  prodigal  use  of  paints  and  cosmetics,  and 
all  imaginable  artificial  adjuncts  of  a  spurious  beauty.  This  ex- 
tended often  even  to  the  men,  and  the  sturdiest  warrior  deemed 
it  no  shame  to  recur  to  such  arts  of  the  toilet  as  the  vainest 
wanton  in  our  day  would  never  venture  to  acknowledge.  But 
the  Lady  Bonville,  proudly  confident  of  her  beauty,  and  possess- 
ing a  purity  of  mind  that  revolted  from  the  littleness  of  court- 
ing admiration,  contrasted  forcibly  in  this  the  ladies  of  the 
court.  Her  cheek  was  of  a  marble  whiteness,  though  occas- 
sionally  a  rising  flush  through  the  clear,  rich,  transparent  skin 
showed  that  in  earlier  youth  the  virgin  bloom  had  not  been  ab- 
sent from  the  surface.  There  was  in  her  features,  "/hen  they 
reposed,  somewhat  of  the  trace  of  suffering — of  a  struggle,  past 
it  may  be,  but  still  remembered.  But  when  she  spoke,  those 


2IO  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

features  lighted  up  and  undulated  in  such  various  and  kindling 
life  as  to  dazzle,  to  bewitch,  or  to  awe  the  beholder,  according 
as  the  impulse  moulded  the  expression.  Her  dress  suited  her 
lofty  and  spotless  character.  Henry  VI.  might  have  contem- 
plated, with  holy  pleasure,  its  matronly  decorum ;  the  jewelled 
gorget  ascended  to  the  rounded  and  dimpled  chin;  the  arms 
were  bare  only  at  the  wrists,  where  the  blue  veins  were  seen 
through  a  skin  of  snow;  the  dark  glossy  locks,  which  her  tire- 
woman boasted,  when  released,  swept  the  ground,  were  gathered 
into  a  modest  and  simple  braid,  surmounted  by  the  beseeming 
coronet  that  proclaimed  her  rank.  The  Lady  Bonville  might 
have  stood  by  the  side  of  Cornelia,  the  model  of  a  young  and 
highborn  matron,  in  whose  virtue  the  honor  of  man  might  se- 
curely dwell. 

"I  understand  you,  my  lord,"  she  said,  with  her  bright,  thank- 
ful smile;  "and  as  Lord  Warwick's  sister,  I  am  grateful." 

"Your  love  for  the  great  Earl  proves  you  are  noble  enough 
to  forgive,"  said  Richard  meaningly.  "Nay,  chide  me  not 
with  that  lofty  look :  you  know  that  there  are  no  secrets  between 
Hastings  and  Gloucester." 

"My  lord  Duke,  the  head  of  a  noble  house  hath  the  right  to 
dispose  of  the  hands  of  the  daughters ;  I  know  nothing  in  Lord 
Warwick  to  forgive." 

But  she  turned  her  head  as  she  spoke,  and  a  tear  for  a  mo- 
ment trembled  in  that  haughty  eye. 

"Lady,"  said  Richard,  moved  to  admiration,  "to  you  let  me 
confide  my  secret.  I  would  be  your  nephew.  Boy  though  I 
be  in  years,  my  heart  beats  as  loudly  as  a  man's;  and  that  heart 
beats  for  Anne." 

"The  love  of  Richard  Plantagenet  honors  even  Warwick's 
daughter!" 

"Think  you  so.  Then  stand  my  friend;  and,  being  thus  my 
friend,  intercede  with  Warwick,  if  he  angers  at  the  silly  holiday 
of  this  Woodville  pageant."' 

"Alas,  sir,  you  know  that  Warwick  listens  to  no  interceders 
between  himself  and  his  passions.  But  what  then?  Grant  him 
wronged,  aggrieved,  trifled  with — what  then?  Can  he  injure 
the  House  of  York?" 

Richard  looked  in  some  surprise  at  the  fair  speaker. 

"Can  he  injure  the  House  of  York?  Marry,  yes, "  he  re- 
plied bluntly. 

"But  for  what  end?  Whom  else  should  he  put  upon  the 
throne?" 

"What  if  he  forgive  the  Lancastrians?     What  if — " 


THE   LAST   OP   THE   BARONS.  211 

'Utter  not  the  thought,  Prince,  breathe  it  not,"  exclaimed 
the  Lady  Bonville,  almost  fiercely.  "I  love  and  honor  my 
brave  brother,  despite — despite — "  She  paused  a  moment, 
blushed,  and  proceeded  rapidly,  without  concluding  the  sen- 
tence: "I  love  him  as  a  woman  of  his  house  must  love  the 
hero  who  forms  its  proudest  boast.  But  if  for  any  personal 
grudge,  any  low  ambition,  any  rash  humor,  the  son  of  my  father, 
Salisbury,  could  forget  that  Margaret  of  Anjou  placed  the  gory 
head  of  that  old  man  upon  the  gates  of  York,  could  by  word 
or  deed  abet  the  cause  of  usurping  and  bloody  Lancaster,  I 
would — I  would — Out  upon  my  sex !  I  could  do  nought  but 
weep  the  glory  of  Nevile  and  Monthermer  gone  forever." 

Before  Richard  could  reply,  the  sound  of  musical  instru- 
ments, and  a  procession  of  heralds  and  pages  proceeding  from 
the  palace,  announced  the  approach  of  Edward.  He  caught 
the  hand  of  the  Dame  of  Bonville,  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  and  say- 
ing: "May  fortune  one  day  permit  me  to  face  as  the  Earl's  son 
the  Earl's  foes,"  made  his  graceful  reverence,  glided  from  the 
garden,  gained  his  barge,  and  was  rowed  to  the  huge  pile  of 
Baynard's  Castle,  lately  reconstructed,  but  in  a  gloomy  and  bar- 
baric taste,  and  in  which,  at  that  time,  he  principally  resided 
with  his  mother,  the  once  peerless  Rose  of  Raby. 

The  Lady  of  Bonville  paused  a  moment,  and  in  that  pause 
her  countenance  recovered  its  composure.  She  then  passed 
on  with  a  stately  step  towards  a  group  of  the  ladies  of  the  court, 
and  her  eye  noted  with  proud  pleasure  that  the  highest  names 
of  the  English  knighthood  and  nobility,  comprising  the  numer- 
ous connections  of  her  family,  formed  a  sullen  circle  apart  from 
the  rest,  betokening,  by  their  grave  countenances  and  moody 
whispers,  how  sensitively  they  felt  the  slight  to  Lord  Warwick's 
embassy  in  the  visit  of  the  Count  de  la  Roche,  and  how  little 
they  were  disposed  to  cringe  to  the  rising  sun  of  the  Wood- 
villes.  There,  collected  into  a  puissance  whose  discontent  had 
sufficed  to  shake  a  firmer  throne  (the  young  Raoul  de  Fulke, 
the  idolater  of  Warwick,  the  personation  in  himself  of  the 
old  Norman  seignorie,  in  their  centre),  with  folded  arms  and 
lowering  brows,  stood  the  Earl's  kinsmen,  the  Lords  Fitzhugh 
and  Fauconberg;  with  them,  Thomas  Lord  Stanley,  a  prudent 
noble,  who  rarely  sided  with  a  malcontent,  and  the  Lord  St. 
John,  and  the  heir  of  the  ancient  Bergavennies,  and  many  an- 
other chief,  under  whose  banner  marched  an  army!  Richard 
of  Gloucester  had  shown  his  wit  in  refusing  to  mingle  in  in- 
trigues which  provoked  the  ire  of  that  martial  phalanx.  As  the 
Lady  of  Bonville  swept  by  these  gentlemen,  their  murmur  of 


212  iHF.    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

respectful  homage,  their  profound  salutation,  and  unbonneted 
heads,  contrasted  forcibly  with  the  slight  and  grave,  if  not  scorn- 
ful, obeisance  they  had  just  rendered  to  one  of  the  Queen's 
sisters,  who  had  passed,  a  moment  before,  in  the  same  direction. 
The  lady  still  moved  on,  and  came  suddenly  across  the  path 
of  Hastings,  as  in  his  robes  of  state  he  issued  from  the  palace. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  both  changed  color. 

"So,  my  lord  chamberlain,"  said  the  dame  sarcastically, 
"the  Count  de  la  Roche  is,  I  hear,  consigned  to  your  especial 
charge." 

"A  charge  the  chamberlain  cannot  refuse,  and  which  William 
Hastings  does  not  covet." 

"A  King  had  never  asked  Montagu  and  Warwick  to  consider 
amongst  their  duties  any  charge  they  had  deemed  dishonoring." 

"Dishonoring,  Lady  Bonville!"  exclaimed  Hastings,  with  a 
bent  brow  and  a  flushed  cheek;  "neither  Montagu  nor  War- 
wick had  with  safety,  applied  to  me  the  word  that  has  just 
passed  your  lips." 

"I  crave  your  pardon,"  answered  Katharine  bitterly. 
"Mine  articles  of  faith  in  men's  honor  are  obsolete  or  heretical. 
I  had  deemed  it  dishonoring  in  a  noble  nature  to  countenance 
insult  to  a  noble  enemy  in  his  absence.  I  had  deemed  it  dis- 
honoring in  a  brave  soldier,  a  well-born  gentleman  (now  from 
his  valiantness,  merit,  and  wisdom,  become  a  puissant  and 
dreaded  lord),  to  sink  into  that  lackeydom  and  varletaille  which 
falsehood  and  cringing  have  stablished  in  these  walls,  and  bap- 
tized under  the  name  of  'courtiers.'  Better  had  Katherine  de 
Bonville  esteemed  Lord  Hastings  had  he  rather  fallen  under  a 
king's  displeasure  than  debased  his  better  self  to  a  Woodville's 
dastard  schemings." 

"Lady,  you  are  cruel  and  unjust,  like  all  your  haughty  race. 
And  idle  were  reply  to  one  who,  of  all  persons,  should  have 
judged  me  better.  For  the  rest,  if  this  mummery  humbles 
Lord  Warwick,  gramercy!  there  is  nothing  in  my  memory  that 
should  make  my  share  in  it  a  gall  to  my  conscience;  nor  do 
I  owe  the  Neviles  so  large  a  gratitude  that  rather  than  fret  the 
pile  of  their  pride,  I  should  throw  down  the  scaffolding  on 
which  my  fearless  step  hath  clombe  to  as  fair  a  height,  and  one 
perhaps  that  may  overlook  as  long  a  posterity,  as  the  best  baron 
that  ever  quartered  the  Raven  Eagle  and  the  Dun  Bull.  But 
(resumed  Hastings,  with  a  withering  sarcasm)  doubtless  the 
Lady  de  Bonville  more  admires  the  happy  lord  who  holds  him- 
self, by  right  of  pedigree,  superior  to  all  things  that  make  the 
Stacesman  wise,  the  scholar  learned,  and  the  soldier  famous. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  213 

Way  there — back,  gentles," — and  Hastings  turned  to  the 
crowd  behind — "  way  there  for  my  lord  of  Harrington  and 
Bonville!" 

The  bystanders  smiled  at  each  other  as  they  obeyed ;  and  a 
heavy,  shambling,  graceless  man,  dressed  in  the  most  exagger- 
ated fopperies  of  the  day,  but  with  a  face  which  even  sickliness, 
that  refines  most  faces,  could  not  divest  of  the  most  vacant  dul- 
ness,  and  a  mien  and  gait  to  which  no  attire  could  give  dignity, 
passed  through  the  group,  bowing  awkwardly  to  the  right  and 
left,  and  saying  in  a  thick,  husky  voice:  "You  are  too  good, 
sirs — too  good:  I  must  not  presume  so  overmuch  on  my  seig- 
norie.  The  King  would  keep  me — he  would  indeed,  sirs;  um — 
um — why,Katherine — dame — thy  stiff  gorget  makes  me  ashamed 
of  thee.  Thou  wouldst  not  think,  Lord  Hastings,  that  Katherine 
had  a  white  skin — a  parlous  white  skin.  La,  you  now — fie  on 
these  mufflers! " 

The  courtiers  sneered ;  Hastings,  with  a  look  of  malignant 
and  pitiless  triumph,  eyed  the  Lady  of  Bonville.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  color  went  and  came  across  her  transparent  cheek, 
but  the  confusion  passed,  and  returning  the  insulting  gaze  of  her 
ancient  lover  with  an  eye  of  unspeakable  majesty,  she  placed 
her  arm  upon  her  lord's,  and  saying  calmly,  "An  English 
matron  cares  but  to  be  fair  in  her  husband's  eyes,"  drew  him 
away;  and  the  words  and  the  manner  of  the  lady  were  so  digni- 
fied and  simple,  that  the  courtiers  hushed  their  laughter,  and 
for  the  moment  the  lord  of  such  a  woman  was  not  only  envied 
but  respected. 

While  this  scene  had  passed,  the  procession,  preceding  Ed- 
ward, had  filed  into  the  garden  in  long  and  stately  order.  From 
another  entrance,  Elizabeth,  the  Princess  Margaret,  and  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford,  with  their  trains,  had  already  issued,  and 
were  now  ranged  upon  a  flight  of  marble  steps,  backed  by  a 
columned  alcove,  hung  with  velvets  striped  into  the  royal  bau- 
dekin,  while  the  stairs  themselves  were  covered  with  leathern 
carpets,  powdered  with  the  white  rose  and  the  fleur-de-lis; 
either  side  lined  by  the  bearers  of  the  many  banners  of  Edward, 
displaying  the  white  lion  of  March,  the  black  bull  of  Clare,  the 
cross  of  Jerusalem,  the  dragon  of  Arragon,  and  the  rising  sun, 
which  he  had  assumed  as  his  peculiar  war  badge  since  the  bat- 
tle of  Mortimer's  Cross.  Again,  and  louder,  came  the  flourish 
of  music ;  and  a  murmur  through  the  crowd,  succeeded  by  deep 
silence,  announced  the  entrance  of  the  King.  He  appeared, 
leading  by  the  hand  the  Count  de  la  Roche>  and  followed  by 
the  Lords  Scales,  Rivers,  Dorset,  and  the  Duke  of  Clarence, 


214  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

All  eyes  were  bent  upon  the  Count,  and  though  seen  to  dis- 
advantage by  the  side  of  the  comeliest  and  stateliest  and  most 
gorgeously  attired  prince  in  Christendom,  his  high  forehead, 
bright  sagacious  eye,  and  powerful  frame  did  not  disappoint 
the  expectations  founded  upon  the  fame  of  one  equally  subtle 
in  council  and  redoubted  in  war. 

The  royal  host  and  the  princely  guest  made  their  way  where 
Elizabeth,  blazing  in  jewels  and  cloth  of  gold,  shone  royally, 
begirt  by  the  ladies  of  her  brilliant  court.  At  her  right  hand 
stood  her  mother,  at  her  left  the  Princess  Margaret. 

"I  present  to  you,  my  Elizabeth,"  said  Edward,  "a  princely 
gentleman  to  whom  we  nevertheless  wish  all  ill-fortune — for 
we  cannot  desire  that  he  may  subdue  our  knights,  and  we  would 
fain  hope  that  he  may  be  conquered  by  our  ladies." 

"The  last  hope  is  already  fulfilled,"  said  the  Count  gallant- 
ly, as  on  his  knee  he  kissed  the  fair  hand  extended  to  him. 
Then  rising,  and  gazing  full  and  even  boldly  upon  the  young 
Princess  Margaret,  he  added:  "I  have  seen  too  often  the  pict- 
ure of  the  Lady  Margaret  not  to  be  aware  that  I  stand  in  that 
illustrious  presence." 

"Her  picture!  Sir  Count,"  said  the  Queen;  "we  knew  not 
that  it  had  been  even  limned." 

"Pardon  me,  it  was  done  by  stealth." 

"And  where  have  you  seen  it?" 

"Worn  at  the  heart  of  my  brother  the  Count  of  Charolois!" 
answered  De  la  Roche,  in  a  whispered  tone. 

Margaret  blushed  with  evident  pride  and  delight ;  and  the 
wily  envoy,  leaving  the  impression  his  words  had  made  to  take 
their  due  effect,  addressed  himself,  with  all  the  gay  vivacity  he 
possessed,  to  the  fair  Queen  and  her  haughty  mother. 

After  a  brief  time  spent  in  this  complimentary  converse,  the 
Count  then  adjourned  to  inspect  the  menagerie,  of  which  the 
King  was  very  proud.  Edward,  offering  his  hand  to  his  Queen, 
led  the  way,  and  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  directing  the  Count 
to  Margaret  by  a  shrewd  and  silent  glance  of  her  eye,  so  far 
smothered  her  dislike  to  Clarence  as  to  ask  his  Highness  to  at- 
tend herself. 

"Ah!  lady,"  whispered  the  Count,  as  the  procession  moved 
along,  "what  thrones  would  not  Charolois  resign  for  the  hand 
that  his  unworthy  envoy  is  allowed  to  touch!" 

"Sir,"  said  Margaret  demurely,  looking  down,  "the  Count 
of  Charolois  is  a  lord,  who,  if  report  be  true,  makes  war  his  only 
mistress." 

"Because  the  only  living  mistress  his  great  heart  could  serve 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  215 

is  denied  to  his  love !  Ah,  poor  lord  and  brother,  what  new 
reasons  for  eternal  war  to  Burgundy,  when  France,  not  only 
his  foe,  becomes  his  rival!" 

Margaret  sighed,  and  the  Count  continued,  till  by  degrees  he 
warmed  the  royal  maiden  from  her  reserve ;  and  his  eye  grew 
brighter  and  a  triumphant  smile  played  about  his  lips,  when, 
after  the  visit  to  the  menagerie,  the  procession  re-entered  the 
palace,  and  the  Lord  Hastings  conducted  the  Count  to  the 
bath  prepared  for  him,  previous  to  the  crowning  banquet  of  the 
night.  And  far  more  luxurious  and  more  splendid  than  might 
be  deemed  by  those  who  read  but  the  general  histories  of  that 
sanguinary  time,  or  the  inventories  of  furniture  in  the  houses 
even  of  the  great  barons,  was  the  accommodation  which  Edward 
afforded  to  his  guest.  His  apartments  and  chambers  were  hung 
with  white  silk  and  linen,  the  floors  covered  with  richly  woven 
carpets ;  the  counterpane  of  his  bed  was  cloth  of  gold,  trimmed 
with  ermine ;  the  cupboard  shone  with  vessels  of  silver  and 
gold ;  and  over  two  baths  were  pitched  tents  of  white  cloth  of 
Rennes,  fringed  with  silver.* 

Agreeably  to  the  manners  of  the  time,  Lord  Hastings  as- 
sisted to  disrobe  the  Count ;  and,  the  more  to  bear  him  com- 
pany, afterwards  undressed  himself  and  bathed  in  the  one  bath, 
while  the  Count  refreshed  his  limbs  in  the  other. 

"Pri'thee, "  said  De  la  Roche,  drawing  aside  the  curtain  of 
his  tent,  and  putting  forth  his  head — "pri'thee,  my  Lord  Hast- 
ings, deign  to  instruct  my  ignorance  of  a  court  which  I  would 
fain  know  well,  and  let  me  weet  whether  the  splendor  of  your 
King,  far  exceeding  what  I  was  taught  to  look  for,  is  derived 
from  his  revenue,  as  sovereign  of  England,  or  chief  of  the 
House  of  York?" 

"Sir,"  returned  Hastings  gravely,  putting  out  his  own  head, 
"it  is  Edward's  happy  fortune  to  be  the  wealthiest  proprietor 
in  England,  except  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  thus  he  is  enabled 
to  indulge  a  state  which  yet  oppresses  not  his  people." 

"Except  the  Earl  of  Warwick,"  repeated  the  Count  musing- 
ly, as  the  fumes  of  the  odors,  with  which  the  bath  was  filled, 
rose  in  a  cloud  over  his  long  hair — "ill  would  fare  that  subject, 
in  most  lands,  who  was  as  wealthy  as  his  King!  You  have 
heard  that  Warwick  has  met  King  Louis  at  Rouen,  and  that 
they  are  inseparable?" 

"It  becomes  an  ambassador  to  win  grace  of  him  he  is  sent  to 
please." 

"But  none  win  grace  of  Louis  whom  Louis  does  not  dupe." 

*  See  Madden's  Narrative  of  the  Lord  Grauthusq  :    Archteologia,  1830, 


2l6  THK    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"You  know  not  Lord  Warwick,  Sir  Count.  His  mind  is  so 
strong  and  so  frank,  that  it  is  as  hard  to  deceive  him,  as  it  is  to 
be  deceived." 

"Time  will  show,"  said  the  Count  pettishly,  and  he  with- 
drew his  head  into  the  tent. 

And  now  there  appeared  the  attendants,  with  hippocras, 
syrups,  and  comfits,  by  way  of  giving  appetite  for  the  supper, 
so  that  no  farther  opportunity  for  private  conversation  was  left 
to  the  two  lords.  While  the  Count  was  dressing,  the  Lord 
Scales  entered  with  a  superb  gown,  clasped  with  jewels,  and 
lined  with  minever,  with  which  Edward  had  commissioned  him 
to  present  the  Bastard.  In  this  robe,  the  Lord  Scales  insisted 
upon  enduing  his  antagonist  with  his  own  hands,  and  the  three 
knights  then  repaired  to  the  banquet.  At  the  King's  table  no 
male  personage  out  of  the  royal  family  sate,  except  Lord  Riv- 
ers— as  Elizabeth's  father — and  the  Count  De  la  Roche,  placed 
between  Margaret  and  the  Duchess  of  Bedford. 

At  another  table,  the  great  peers  of  the  realm  feasted  under 
the  presidence  of  Anthony  Woodville,  while,  entirely  filling 
one  side  of  the  hall,  the  ladies  of  the  court  held  their  "mess"  (so 
called)  apart,  and  "great  and  mighty  was  the  eating  thereof!" 

The  banquet  ended,  the  dance  begun.  The  admirable  ' '  feat- 
liness"  of  the  Count  de  la  Roche,  in  the  pavon,  with  the  Lady 
Margaret,  was  rivalled  only  by  the  more  majestic  grace  of  Ed- 
ward and  the  dainty  steps  of  Anthony  Woodville.  But  the 
lightest  and  happiest  heart  which  beat  in  that  revel  was  one  in 
which  no  scheme  and  no  ambition  but  those  of  love  nursed  the 
hope  and  dreamed  the  triumph. 

Stung  by  the  coldness,  even  more  than  by  the  disdain  of  the 
Lady  Bonville,  and  enraged  to  find  that  no  taunt  of  his  own, 
however  galling,  could  ruffle  a  dignity  which  was  an  insult  both 
to  memory  and  to  self-love,  Hastings  had  exerted  more  than 
usual,  both  at  the  banquet  and  in  the  revel,  those  general  powers 
of  pleasing  which,  even  in  an  age  when  personal  qualifications 
ranked  so  high,  had  yet  made  him  no  less  renowned  for  suc- 
cesses in  gallantry  than  the  beautiful  and  youthful  King.  All 
about  this  man  witnessed  to  the  triumph  of  mind  over  the  ob- 
stacles that  beset  it, — his  rise  without  envy,  his  safety  amidst 
foes,  the  happy  ease  with  which  he  moved  through  the  snares 
and  pits  of  everlasting  stratagem  and  universal  wile!  Him 
alone  the  arts  of  the  Woodvilles  could  not  supplant  in  Edward's 
confidence  and  love;  to  him  alone  dark  Gloucester  bent  his 
haughty  soul ;  him  alone,  Warwick,  who  had  rejected  his  alli- 
ance, and  knew  the  private  grudge  the  rejection  bequeathed — : 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  217 

him  alone,  among  the  "new  men,"  Warwick  always  treated  with 
generous  respect,  as  a  wise  patriot  and  a  fearless  soldier;  and 
in  the  more  frivolous  scenes  of  courtly  life,  the  same  mind 
raised  one  no  longer  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  with  no  striking 
advantages  of  person,  and  studiously  disdainful  of  all  the  fop- 
peries of  the  time,  to  an  equality  with  the  youngest,  the  fairest, 
the  gaudiest  courtier,  in  that  rivalship  which  has  pleasure  for 
its  object  and  love  for  its  reward.  Many  a  heart  beat  quicker 
as  the  graceful  courtier,  with  that  careless  wit  which  veiled  his 
profound  mourn  fulness  of  character,  or  with  that  delicate  flat- 
tery which  his  very  contempt  for  human  nature  had  taught  him, 
moved  from  dame  to  donzell ;  till  at  length,  in  the  sight  and 
hearing  of  the  Lady  Bonville,  as  she  sate,  seemingly  heedless 
of  his  revenge,  amidst  a  group  of  matrons  elder  than  herself,  a 
murmur  of  admiration  made  him  turn  quickly,  and  his  eye,  fol- 
lowing the  gaze  of  the  bystanders,  rested  upon  the  sweet,  ani- 
mated face  of  Sibyll,  flushed  into  rich  bloom  at  the  notice  it 
excited.  Then  as  he  approached  the  maiden,  his  quick  glance, 
darting  to  the  woman  he  had  first  loved,  told  him  that  he  had 
at  last  discovered  the  secret  how  to  wound.  An  involuntary 
compression  of  Katherine's  proud  lips,  a  hasty  rise  and  fall  of 
the  stately  neck,  a  restless,  indescribable  flutter,  as  it  were,  of 
the  whole  frame,  told  the  experienced  woman-reader  of  the 
signs  of  jealousy  and  fear.  And  he  passed  at  once  to  the  young 
maiden's  side.  Alas!  what  wonder  that  Sibyll  that  night  sur- 
rendered her  heart  to  the  happiest  dreams;  and  finding  herself 
on  the  floors  of  a  court — intoxicated  by  its  perfumed  air — hear- 
ing on  all  sides  the  murmured  eulogies  which  approved  and 
justified  the  seeming  preference  of  the  powerful  noble — what 
wonder  that  she  thought  the  humble  maiden,  with  her  dower  of 
radiant  youth  and  exquisite  beauty,  and  the  fresh  and  count- 
less treasures  of  virgin  love,  might  be  no  unworthy  mate  of  the 
"new  lord." 

It  was  morning  *  before  the  revel  ended ;  and,  when  dis- 
missed by  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  Sibyll  was  left  to  herself, 
not  even  amidst  her  happy  visions  did  the  daughter  forget  her 
office.  She  stole  into  her  father's  chamber.  He,  too,  was 
astir  and  up — at  work  at  the  untiring  furnace,  the  damps  on 
his  brow,  but  all  hope's  vigor  at  his  heart.  So  while  Pleasure 
feasts,  and  Youth  revels,  and  Love  deludes  itself,  and  Am- 
bition chases  its  shadows  (chased  itself  by  Death) — so  works 
the  world-changing  and  world-despised  SCIENCE,  the  life  within 
life,  for  all  living — and  to  all  dead ! 

*  The  hours  of  our  ancestors,  on  great  occasions,  were  not  always  more  seasonable  than 
our  own.  Froissart  speaks  of  Court  Balls  in  the  reign  of  Richard  II.,  kept  up  till  day. 


2l8  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    RENOWNED    COMBAT  BETWEEN  SIR    ANTHONY    WOODVILLE 
AND  THE  BASTARD  OF  BURGUNDY. 

AND  now  the  day  came  for  the  memorable  joust  between  the 
Queen's  brother  and  the  Count  de  la  Roche.  By  a  chapter 
solemnly  convoked  at  St.  Paul's,  the  preliminaries  were  settled; 
upon  the  very  timber  used  in  decking  the  lists,  King  Edward 
expended  half  the  yearly  revenue  derived  from  all  the  forests 
of  his  duchy  of  York.  In  the  wide  space  of  Smithfield,  des- 
tined at  a  later  day  to  blaze  with  the  fires  of  intolerant  bigotry, 
crowded  London's  holiday  population:  and  yet,  though  all  the 
form  and  parade  of  chivalry  were  there ;  though,  in  the  open 
balconies,  never  presided  a  braver  king  or  a  comelier  queen ; 
though  never  a  more  accomplished  chevalier  than  Sir  Anthony 
Lord  of  Scales,  nor  a  more  redoubted  knight  than  the  brother 
of  Charles  the  Bold,  met  lance  to  lance ;  it  was  obvious  to  the 
elder  and  more  observant  spectators,  that  the  true  spirit  of  the 
lists  was  already  fast  wearing  out  from  the  influences  of  the 
age ;  that  the  gentleman  was  succeeding  to  the  knight;  that  a 
more  silken  and  scheming  race  had  become  the  heirs  of  the 
iron  men,  who,  under  Edward  III.,  had  realized  the  fabled 
Paladins  of  Charlemagne  and  Arthur.  But  the  actors  were  less 
changed  than  the  spectators — the  Well-born  than  the  People. 
Instead  of  that  hearty  sympathy  in  the  contest;  that  awful  re- 
spect for  the  champions;  that  eager  anxiety  for  the  honor  of  the 
national  lance,  which,  a  century  or  more  ago,  would  have  moved 
the  throng  as  one  breast,  the  comments  of  the  bystanders  evinced 
rather  the  cynicism  of  ridicule;  the  feeling  that  the  contest  was 
unreal;  and  that  chivalry  was  out  of  place  in  the  practical  tem- 
per of  the  times.  On  the  great  chess-board  the  pawns  were 
now  so  marshalled  that  the  knights'  moves  were  no  longer  able 
to  scour  the  boarr1  and  hold  in  check  both  castle  and  king. 

"Gramercy!"  raid  Master  Stokton,  who  sate  in  high  state 
as  sheriff,*  "this  is  a  sad  waste  of  moneys;  and  where,  after 
all,  is  the  glory  in  two  tall  fellows,  walled  a  yard  thick  in  ar- 
mor, poking  at  each  other  with  poles  of  painted  wood?" 

"Give  me  a  good  bull-bait!"  said  a  sturdy  butcher,  in  the 
crowd  below:  "that's  more  English,  I  take  it,  than  these 
fooleries." 

Amongst  the  ring,  the  bold  'prentices  of  London,  up  and 
away  betimes,  had  pushed  their  path  into  a  foremost  place, 

*  Fabyan. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  2I<) 

much  to  the  discontent  of  the  gentry,  and  with  their  flat  caps, 
long  hair,  thick  bludgeons,  loud  exclamations,  and  turbulent 
demeanor,  greatly  scandalized  the  formal  heralds.  That,  too, 
was  a  sign  of  the  times.  Nor  less  did  it  show  the  growth  of 
commerce,  that,  on  seats  very  little  below  the  regal  balconies,  and 
far  more  conspicuous  than  the  places  of  earls  and  barons,  sate  in 
state  the  mayor  (that  mayor  a  grocer*)  and  aldermen  of  the  city. 

A  murmur,  rising  gradually  into  a  general  shout,  evinced  the 
admiration  into  which  the  spectators  were  surprised,  when  An- 
thony Woodville  Lord  Scales,  his  head  bare,  appeared  at  the 
entrance  of  the  lists — so  bold  and  so  fair  was  his  countenance, 
so  radiant  his  armor,  and  so  richly  caparisoned  his  gray  steed, 
in  the  gorgeous  housings  that  almost  swept  the  ground;  and 
around  him  grouped  such  an  attendance  of  knights  and  peers 
as  seldom  graced  the  train  of  any  subject,  with  the  Duke  of 
Clarence  at  his  right  hand,  bearing  his  bassinet. 

But  Anthony's  pages,  supporting  his  banner,  shared  at  least 
the  popular  admiration  with  their  gallant  lord:  they  were,  ac- 
cording to  the  old  custom,  which  probably  fell  into  disuse 
under  the  Tudors,  disguised  in  imitation  of  the  heraldric  beasts 
that  typified  his  armorial  cognizance:  f  and  horrible  and  laidley 
looked  they  in  the  guise  of  griffins,  with  artful  scales  of  thin 
steel  painted  green,  red  forked  tongues,  and  griping  the  banner 
in  one  huge  claw,  while,  much  to  the  marvel  of  the  bystanders, 
they  contrived  to  walk  very  statelily  on  the  other.  "Oh,  the 
brave  monsters!"  exclaimed  the  butcher,  "Cogs  bones,  this 
beats  all  the  rest!" 

But  when  the  trumpets  of  the  heralds  had  ceased ;  when  the 
words  "Laissez  aller /"  were  pronounced;  when  the  lances 
were  set  and  the  charge  began,  this  momentary  admiration  was 
converted  into  a  cry  of  derision,  by  the  sudden  restiveness  of 
the  Burgundian's  horse.  This  animal,  of  the  pure  race  of 
Flanders,  of  a  bulk  approaching  to  clumsiness,  of  a  rich  bay, 
where,  indeed,  amidst  the  barding  and  the  housings,  its  color 
could  be  discerned,  had  borne  the  valiant  Bastard  through 
many  a  sanguine  field,  and  in  the  last  had  received  a  wound 
which  had  greatly  impaired  its  sight.  And  now,  whether 
scared  by  the  shouting,  or  terrified  by  its  obscure  vision,  and 
the  recollection  of  its  wound  when  last  bestrode  by  its  lord,  it 
halted  midway,  reared  on  end,  and,  fairly  turning  round,  des- 
pite spur  and  bit,  carried  back  the  Bastard,  swearing  strange 
oaths,  that  grumbled  hoarsely  through  his  visor,  to  the  very 
place  whence  he  had  started. 

*  Sir  John  Yonge— Fabyan.  t  Hence  the  origin  of  Supporttrt. 


22O  THE   LAST   OF    THE   BARONS. 

The  uncourteous  mob  yelled  and  shouted  and  laughed,  and 
wholly  disregarding  the  lifted  wands,  and  drowning  the  solemn 
rebukes  of  the  heralds,  they  heaped  upon  the  furious  Burgun- 
dian  all  the  expressions  of  ridicule  in  which  the  wit  of  Cock- 
aigne is  so  immemorially  rich.  But  the  courteous  Anthony 
of  England,  seeing  the  strange  and  involuntary  flight  of  his 
redoubted  foe,  incontinently  reined-in,  lowered  his  lance,  and 
made  his  horse,  without  turning  round,  back  to  the  end  of  the 
lists  in  a  series  of  graceful  gambadas  and  caracols.  Again  the 
signal  was  given,  and  this  time  the  gallant  bay  did  not  fail  his 
rider;  ashamed,  doubtless,  of  its  late  misdemeanor,  arching  its 
head  till  it  almost  touched  the  breast,  laying  its  ears  level  on 
the  neck,  and  with  a  snort  of  anger  and  disdain,  the  steed  of 
Flanders  rushed  to  the  encounter.  The  Bastard's  lance  shiv- 
ered fairly  against  the  small  shield  of  the  Englishman,  but  the 
Woodville's  weapon,  more  deftly  aimed,  struck  full  on  the 
Count's  bassinet,  and  at  the  same  time  the  pike  projecting 
from  the  gray  charger's  chaffron  pierced  the  nostrils  of  the 
unhappy  bay,  whom  rage  and  shame  had  blinded  more  than 
ever.  The  noble  animal,  stung  by  the  unexpected  pain,  and 
bitted  sharply  by  the  rider,  whose  seat  was  sorely  shaken  by 
the  stroke  on  his  helmet,  reared  again,  stood  an  instant  per- 
fectly erect,  and  then  fell  backwards,  rolling  over  and  over  the 
illustrious  burden  it  had  borne.  Then  the  debonair  Sir  An- 
thony of  England,  casting  down  his  lance,  drew  his  sword,  and 
dexterously  caused  his  destrier  to  curvet  in  a  close  circle  round 
the  fallen  Bastard,  courteously  shaking  at  him  the  brandished 
weapon,  but  without  attempt  to  strike. 

"Ho,  marshal!"  cried  King  Edward,  "assist  to  his  legs  the 
brave  Count." 

The  marshal  hastened  to  obey.  "  Ventrebleu  /"  quoth  the 
Bastard,  when  extricated  from  the  weight  of  his  steed,  "I  can- 
not hold  by  the  clouds,  but  though  my  horse  failed  me,  surely 
I  will  not  fail  my  companions" — and  as  he  spoke,  he  placed 
himself  in  so  gallant  and  superb  a  posture,  that  he  silenced  the 
inhospitable  yell  which  had  rejoiced  in  the  foreigner's  discom- 
fiture. Then,  observing  that  the  gentle  Anthony  had  dis- 
mounted, and  was  leaning  gracefully  against  his  destrier,  the 
Burgundian  called  forth: 

"Sir  Knight,  thou  hast  conquered  the  steed,  not  the  rider. 
We  are  now  foot  to  foot.  The  pole-axe,  or  the  sword — 
which?  Speak!" 

"I  pray  thee,  noble  sieur,"  quoth  the  Woodville  mildly,  "to 
let  the  strife  close  for  this  day,  and  when  rest  hath — " 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  221 

"Talk  of  rest  to  striplings — I  demand  my  rights!" 

"Heaven  forefend,"  said  Anthony  Woodville,  lifting  his 
hand  on  high,  "that  I,  favored  so  highly  by  the  fair  dames  of 
England,  should  demand  repose  on  their  behalf.  But  bear 
witness — "  he  said  (with  the  generosity  of  the  last  true  chevalier 
of  his  age,  and  lifting  his  visor,  so  as  to  be  heard  by  the  King, 
and  even  through  the  foremost  ranks  of  the  crowd) — "bear 
witness,  that  in  this  encounter,  my  cause  hath  befriended  me, 
not  mine  arm.  The  Count  de  la  Roche  speaketh  truly;  and 
his  steed  alone  be  blamed  for  his  mischance." 

"It  is  but  a  blind  beast!"  muttered  the  Burgundian. 

"And,"  added  Anthony,  bowing  towards  the  tiers  rich  with  the 
beauty  of  the  court;  "And  the  Count  himself  assureth  me  that 
the  blaze  of  yonder  eyes  blinded  his  goodly  steed."  Having 
delivered  himself  of  this  gallant  conceit,  so  much  in  accord- 
ance with  the  taste  of  the  day,  the  Englishman,  approaching 
the  King's  balcony,  craved  permission  to  finish  the  encounter 
with  the  axe  or  brand. 

"The  former,  rather,  please  you,  my  liege;  for  the  warriors 
of  Burgundy  have  ever  been  deemed  unconquered  in  that 
martial  weapon." 

Edward,  whose  brave  blood  was  up  and  warm  at  the  clash 
of  steel,  bowed  his  gracious  assent,  and  two  pole-axes  were 
brought  into  the  ring. 

The  crowd  now  evinced  a  more  earnest  and  respectful  atten- 
tion than  they  had  hitherto  shown,  for  the  pole-axe,  in  such 
stalwart  hands,  was  no  child's  toy.  "Hum,"  quoth  Master 
Stokton,  "there  may  be  some  merriment  now — not  like  those 
silly  poles!  Your  axe  lops  off  a  limb  mighty  cleanly." 

The  knights  themselves  seemed  aware  of  the  greater  gravity 
of  the  present  encounter.  Each  looked  well  to  the  bracing  of 
his  visor ;  and  poising  their  weapons  with  method  and  care, 
they  stood  apart  some  moments,  eyeing  each  other  steadfastly, 
as  adroit  fencers  with  the  small  sword  do  in  our  schools  at 
this  day. 

At  length  the  Burgundian,  darting  forward,  launched  a 
mighty  stroke  at  the  Lord  Scales,  which,  though  rapidly  par- 
ried, broke  down  the  guard,  and  descended  with  such  weight 
on  the  shoulder,  that  but  for  the  thrice-proven  steel  of  Milan, 
the  benevolent  expectation  of  Master  Stokton  had  been  happily 
fulfilled.  Even  as  it  was,  the  Lord  Scales  uttered  a  slight 
cry, — which  might  be  either  of  anger  or  of  pain — and  lifting 
his  axe  with  both  hands,  levelled  a  blow  on  the  Burgundian' s 
helmet  that  well-nigh  brought  him  to  his  knee.  And  now,  for 


222  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

the  space  of  some  ten  minutes,  the  crowd,  with  charmed  sus- 
pense, beheld  the  almost  breathless  rapidity  with  which  stroke 
on  stroke  was  given  and  parried ;  the  axe  shifted  to  and  fro — 
wielded  now  with  both  hands — now  the  left,  now  the  right — 
and  the  combat  reeling,  as  it  were,  to  and  fro,  so  that  one 
moment  it  raged  at  one  extreme  of  the  lists,  the  next  at  the 
other ;  and  so  well  inured,  from  their  very  infancy,  to  the  weight 
of  mail  were  these  redoubted  champions,  that  the  very  wrest- 
lers on  the  village  green,  nay,  the  naked  gladiators  of  old, 
might  have  envied  their  lithe  agility  and  supple  quickness. 

At  last,  by  a  most  dexterous  stroke,  Anthony  Woodville 
forced  the  point  of  his  axe  into  the  visor  of  the  Burgundian, 
and  there  so  firmly  did  it  stick,  that  he  was  enabled  to  pull  his 
antagonist  to  and  fro  at  his  will,  while  the  Bastard,  rendered 
as  blind  as  his  horse  by  the  stoppage  of  the  eye-hole,  dealt  his 
own  blows  about  at  random,  and  was  placed  completely  at  the 
mercy  of  the  Englishman.  And  gracious  as  the  gentle  Sir  An- 
thony was,  he  was  still  so  smarting  under  many  a  bruise  felt 
through  his  dinted  mail,  that  small  mercy,  perchance,  would  the 
Bastard  have  found,  for  the  gripe  of  the  Woodville's  left  hand 
was  on  his  foe's  throat,  and  the  right  seemed  about  to  force  the 
point  deliberately  forward  into  the  brain,  when  Edward,  roused 
from  his  delight  at  that  pleasing  spectacle  by  a  loud  shriek 
from  his  Sister  Margaret,  echoed  by  the  Duchess  of  Bedford, 
who  was  by  no  means  anxious  that  her  son's  axe  should  be 
laid  at  the  root  of  all  her  schemes,  rose,  and  crying,  "Hold!" 
with  that  loud  voice  which  had  so  often  thrilled  a  mightier 
field,  cast  down  his  warderer. 

Instantly  the  lists  opened — the  marshals  advanced — severed 
the  champions — and  unbraced  the  Count's  helmet.  But  the 
Bastard's  martial  spirit,  exceedingly  dissatisfied  at  the  un- 
friendly interruption,  rewarded  the  attention  of  the  marshals  by 
an  oath  worthy  his  relationship  to  Charles  the  Bold ;  and  hur- 
rying straight  to  the  King,  his  face  flushed  with  wrath,  and  his 
eyes  sparkling  with  fire : 

"Noble  sire  and  King,"  he  cried,  "do  me  not  this  wrong! 
I  am  not  overthrown,  nor  scathed,  nor  subdued — I  yield  not. 
By  every  knightly  law,  till  one  champion  yields,  he  can  call 
upon  the  other  to  lay  on  and  do  his  worst." 

Edward  paused,  much  perplexed  and  surprised  at  finding 
his  intercession  so  displeasing.  He  glanced  first  at  the  Lord 
Rivers,  who  sate  a  little  below  him,  and  whose  cheek  grew  pale  at 
the  prospect  of  his  son's  renewed  encounter  with  one  so  de- 
termined; then  at  the  immovable  aspect  of  the  gentle  and  ap« 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  223 

thetic  Elizabeth;  then  at  the  agitated  countenance  of  the 
Duchess;  then  at  the  imploring  eyes  of  Margaret,  who,  with 
an  effort,  preserved  herself  from  swooning ;  and  finally,  beck- 
oning to  him  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  as  high  constable,  and  the 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  as  earl  marshal,  he  said:  "Tarry  a  moment, 
Sir  Count,  till  we  take  counsel  in  this  grave  affair."  The 
Count  bowed  sullenly ;  the  spectators  maintained  an  anxious 
silence;  the  curtain  before  the  King's  gallery  was  closed  while 
the  council  conferred.  At  the  end  of  some  three  minutes, 
however,  the  drapery  was  drawn  aside  by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk ; 
and  Edward,  fixing  his  bright  blue  eye  upon  the  fiery  Burgun- 
dian,  said  gravely:  "Count  de  la  Roche,  your  demand  is 'just. 
Acording  to  the  laws  of  the  list,  you  may  fairly  claim  that  the 
encounter  go  on." 

"O  Knightly  Prince,  well  said.  My  thanks!  We  lose 
time — squires,  my  bassinet!" 

"Yea,"  renewed  Edward,  "bring  hither  the  Count's  bassi- 
net. By  the  laws,  the  combat  may  go  on  at  thine  asking — I 
retract  my  wafderer.  But,  Count  de  la  Roche,  by  those  laws 
you  appeal  to,  the  said  combat  must  go  on  precisely  at  the 
point  at  which  it  was  broken  off.  Wherefore  brace  on  thy 
bassinet,  Count  de  la  Roche,  and  thou,  Anthony  Lord  Scales, 
fix  the  pike  of  thine  a^e,  which  I  now  perceive  was  inserted 
exactly  where  the  right  ey/2  giveth  easy  access  to  the  brain, 
precisely  in  the  same  place.  So  renew  the  contest,  and  the 
Lord  have  mercy  on  thy  soul,  Count  de  la  Roche!" 

At  this  startling  sentence,  wholly  unexpected,  and  yet  wholly 
according  to  those  laws  of  which  Edward  was  so  learned  a 
judge,  the  Bastard's  visage  fell.  With  open  mouth  and  as- 
tounded eyes,  he  stood  gazing  at  the  King,  who,  majestically 
reseating  himself,  motioned  to  the  heralds. 

"Is  that  the  law,  sire?"  at  length  faltered  forth  the  Bastard. 

"Can  you  dispute  it?  Can  any  knight  or  gentleman  gain- 
say it?" 

"Then,"  quoth  the  Bastard  gruffly,  and  throwing  his  axe  to 
the  ground,  "by  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar,  I  have  had 
enough !  I  came  hither  to  dare  all  that  beseems  a  chevalier, 
but  to  stand  still  while  Sir  Anthony  Woodville  deliberately 
pokes  out  my  right  eye,  were  a  feat  to  show  that  very  few 
brains  would  follow.  And  so,  my  Lord  Scales,  I  give  thee  my 
right  hand,  and  wish  thee  joy  of  thy  triumph  and  the  golden 
collar."  * 

"No  triumph,"  replied  the  Woodville  modestly,  "for  thou 

*  The  prize  was  a  collar  of  gold,  enamelled  with  the  flower  of  the  sourenance. 


224  TIIK    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

art  only,  as  brave  knights  should  be,  subdued  by  the  charms  of 
the  ladies,  which  no  breast,  however  valiant,  can  with  impu- 
nity dispute." 

So  saying,  the  Lord  Scales  led  the  Count  to  a  seat  of  honor 
near  the  Lord  Rivers.  And  the  actor  was  contented,  perforce, 
to  become  a  spectator  of  the  ensuing  contests.  These  were 
carried  on  till  late  at  noon  between  the  Burgundians  and  the 
English,  the  last  maintaining  the  superiority  of  their  principal 
champion ;  and  among  those  in  the  melee,  to  which  squires 
were  admitted,  not  the  least  distinguished  and  conspicuous  was 
our  youthful  friend,  Master  Marmaduke  Nevile. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HOW  THE  BASTARD  OF  BURGUNDY  PROSPERED  MORE  IN  HIS 
POLICY  THAN  WITH  THE  POLE-AXE — AND  HOW  KING  ED- 
WARD HOLDS  HIS  SUMMER  CHASE  IN  THE  FAIR  GROVES 
OF  SHENE. 

IT  was  some  days  after  the  celebrated  encounter  between  the 
Bastard  and  Lord  Scales ;  and  the  court  had  removed  to  the 
Palace  of  Shene.  The  Count  de  la  Roche's  favor  with  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford  and  the  young  Princess  had  not  rested 
upon  his  reputation  for  skill  with  the  pole-axe,  and  it  had  now 
increased  to  a  height  that  might  well  recompense  the  diploma- 
tist for  his  discomfiture  in  the  lists. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  arts  of  Warwick's  enemies  had  been 
attended  with  signal  success.  The  final  preparations  for  the 
alliance,  now  virtually  concluded,  with  Louis's  brother,  still 
detained  the  Earl  at  Rouen,  and  fresh  accounts  of  the  French 
King's  intimacy  with  the  ambassador  were  carefully  forwarded 
to  Rivers,  and  transmitted  to  Edward.  Now,  we  have  Ed- 
ward's own  authority  for  stating  that  his  first  grudge  against 
Warwick  originated  in  this  displeasing  intimacy,  but  the  Eng- 
lish King  was  too  clear-sighted  to  interpret  such  courtesies  into 
the  gloss  given  them  by  Rivers.  He  did  not  for  a  moment 
conceive  that  Lord  Warwick  was  led  into  any  absolute  connec- 
tion with  Louis  which  could  link  him  to  the  Lancastrians,  for 
this  was  against  common-sense;  but  Edward,  with  all  his 
good-humor,  was  implacable  and  vindictive,  and  he  could  not 
endure  the  thought  that  Warwick  should  gain  the  friendship  of 
the  man  he  deemed  his  foe.  Putting  aside  his  causes  of  hatred 
to  Louis,  in  the  encouragement  which  that  King  had  formerly 
given  to  the  Lancastrian  exiles,  Edward's  pride  as  sovereign 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  225 

felt  acutely  the  slighting  disdain  with  which  the  French  King 
had  hitherto  treated  his  royalty  and  his  birth.  The  customary 
nickname  with  which  he  was  maligned  in  Paris  was  "the  Son  of 
the  Archer" — a  taunt  upon  the  fair  fame  of  his  mother,  whom 
scandal  accused  of  no  rigid  fidelity  to  the  Duke  of  York.  Be- 
sides this,  Edward  felt  somewhat  of  the  jealousy  natural  to  a 
king,  himself  so  spirited  and  able,  of  the  reputation  for  pro- 
found policy  and  statecraft  which  Louis  XI.  was  rapidly 
widening  and  increasing  throughout  the  courts  of  Europe. 
And,  what  with  the  resentment,  and  what  with  the  jealousy, 
there  had  sprung  up  in  his  warlike  heart  a  secret  desire  to  ad- 
vance the  claims  of  England  to  the  throne  of  France,  and  re- 
trieve the  conquests  won  by  the  Fifth  Henry,  to  be  lost  under 
the  Sixth.  Possessing  these  feelings  and  these  views,  Edward 
necessarily  saw,  in  the  alliance  with  Burgundy,  all  that  could 
gratify  both  his  hate  and  his  ambition.  The  Count  of  Charo- 
lois  had  sworn  to  Louis  the  most  deadly  enmity,  and  would 
have  every  motive,  whether  of  vengeance  or  of  interest,  to  as- 
sociate himself  heart  in  hand  with  the  arms  of  England  in  any 
invasion  of  France;  and  to  these  warlike  objects  Edward 
added,  as  we  have  so  often  had  cause  to  remark,  the  more 
peaceful  aims  and  interests  of  commerce.  And,  therefore, 
although  he  could  not  so  far  emancipate  himself  from  that  in- 
fluence, which  both  awe  and  gratitude  invested  in  the  Earl  of 
Warwick,  as  to  resist  his  great  minister's  embassy  to  Louis; 
and  though,  despite  all  these  reasons  in  favor  of  connection 
with  Burgundy,  he  could  not  but  reluctantly  allow  that  War- 
wick urged  those  of  a  still  larger  and  wiser  policy,  when  show- 
ing that  the  infant  dynasty  of  York  could  only  be  made  secure 
by  effectually  depriving  Margaret  of  the  sole  ally  that  could 
venture  to  assist  her  cause,  yet  no  sooner  had  Warwick  fairly 
departed,  than  he  inly  chafed  at  the  concession  he  had  made, 
and  his  mind  was  open  to  all  the  impressions  which  the  Earl's 
enemies  sought  to  stamp  upon  it.  As  the  wisdom  of  every 
man,  however  able,  can  but  run  through  those  channels  which 
are  formed  by  the  soil  of  the  character,  so  Edward,  with  all  his 
talents,  never  possessed  the  prudence  which  fear  of  conse- 
quences inspires.  He  was  so  eminently  fearless — so  scornful 
of  danger — that  he  absolutely  forgot  the  arguments  on  which 
the  affectionate  zeal  of  Warwick  had  based  the  alliance  with 
Louis — arguments  as  to  the  unceasing-  peril,  whether  to  his 
person  or  his  throne,  so  long  as  the  unprincipled  and  plotting 
genius  of  the  French  King  had  an  interest  against  both ;  and 
thus  he  became  only  alive  to  the  representations  of  his  pa§- 


226  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

sions,  his  pride,  and  his  mercantile  interests.  The  Duchess 
of  Bedford,  the  Queen,  and  all  the  family  of  Woodville,  who 
had  but  one  object  at  heart — the  downfall  of  Warwick  and  his 
house — knew  enough  of  the  Earl's  haughty  nature  to  be  aware 
that  he  would  throw  up  the  reins  of  government  the  moment 
he  knew  that  Edward  had  discredited  and  dishonored  his  em- 
bassy ;  and,  despite  the  suspicions  they  sought  to  instil  into 
their  King's  mind,  they  calculated  upon  the  Earl's  love  and 
near  relationship  to  Edward — upon  his  utter,  and  seemingly 
irreconcilable,  breach  with  the  house  of  Lancaster — to  render 
his  wrath  impotent,  and  to  leave  him  only  the  fallen  minister, 
not  the  mighty  rebel. 

Edward  had  been  thus  easily  induced  to  permit  the  visit  of 
the  Count  de  la  Roche,  although  he  had  by  no  means  then  re- 
solved upon  the  course  he  should  pursue.  At  all  events,  even 
if  the  alliance  with  Louis  was  to  take  place,  the  friendship  of 
Burgundy  was  worth  much  to  maintain.  But  De  la  Roche, 
soon  made  aware,  by  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  of  the  ground 
on  which  he  stood,  and  instructed  by  his  brother  to  spare 
no  pains  and  to  scruple  no  promise  that  might  serve  to  alienate 
Edward  from  Louis,  and  win  the  hand  and  dower  of  Margaret, 
found  it  a  more  facile  matter  than  his  most  sanguine  hopes  had 
deemed,  to  work  upon  the  passions  and  the  motives  which  in- 
clined the  King  to  the  pretensions  of  the  heir  of  Burgundy. 
And  what  more  than  all  else  favored  the  envoy's  mission  was 
the  very  circumstance  that  should  most  have  defeated  it,  viz., 
the  recollection  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick.  For  in  the  absence 
of  that  powerful  baron,  and  master-minister,  the  King  had 
seemed  to  breathe  more  freely.  In  his  absence,  he  forgot  his 
power.  The  machine  of  government,  to  his  own  surprise, 
seemed  to  go  on  as  well,  the  Commons  were  as  submissive,  the 
mobs  as  noisy  in  their  shouts,  as  if  the  Earl  was  by.  There 
was  no  longer  any  one  to  share  with  Edward  the  joys  of  popu- 
larity, the  sweets  of  power.  Though  Edward  was  not  Dioge- 
nes, he  loved  the  popular  sunshine,  and  no  Alexander  now 
stood  between  him  and  its  beams.  Deceived  by  the  represen- 
tations of  his  courtiers,  hearing  nothing  but  abuse  of  Warwick, 
and  sneers  at  his  greatness,  he  began  to  think  the  hour  had 
come  when  he  might  reign  alone,  and  he  entered,  though 
tacitly,  and  not  acknowledging  it  even  to  himself,  into  the  very 
object  of  the  womankind  about  him,  viz.,  the  dismissal  of 
his  minister. 

The  natural  carelessness  and  luxurious  indolence  of  Ed- 
ward's temper  did  not,  however,  permit  him  to  see  all  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  227 

ingratitude  of  the  course  he  was  about  to  adopt.  The  egotism 
a  king  too  often  acquires,  and  no  king  so  easily  as  one,  like  Ed- 
ward IV.,  not  born  to  a  throne,  made  him  consider  that  he 
alone  was  entitled  to  the  prerogatives  of  pride.  As  sovereign 
and  as  brother,  might  he  not  give  the  hand  of  Margaret  as  he 
listed?  If  Warwick  was  offended,  pest  on  his  disloyalty  and 
presumption !  And  so  saying  to  himself,  he  dismissed  the  very 
thought  of  the  absent  Earl,  and  glided  unconsciously  down  the 
current  of  the  hour.  And  yet,  notwithstanding  all  these  pre- 
possessions and  dispositions,  Edward  might  no  doubt  have  de- 
ferred, at  least,  the  meditated  breach  with  his  great  minister 
until  the  return  of  the  latter,  and  then  have  acted  with  the  deli- 
cacy and  precaution  that  became  a  king  bound  by  ties  of  grati- 
tude and  blood  to  the  statesman  he  desired  to  discard,  but  for 
a  habit,  which,  while  history  mentions,  it  seems  to  forget,  in 
the  consequences  it  ever  engenders — the  habit  of  intemper- 
ance. Unquestionably,  to  that  habit  many  of  the  impruden- 
ces and  levities  of  a  king  possessed  of  so  much  ability,  are  to 
be  ascribed;  and  over  his  cups  with  the  wary  and  watchful  De 
la  Roche,  Edward  had  contrived  to  entangle  himself  far  more 
than  in  his  cooler  moments  he  would  have  been  disposed  to  do. 
Having  thus  admitted  our  readers  into  those  recesses  of  that 
cor  inscrutabile — the  heart  of  kings — we  summon  them  to  a 
scene  peculiar  to  the  pastimes  of  the  magnificent  Edward. 
Amidst  the  shades  of  the  vast  park  or  chase  which  then  apper- 
tained to  the  Palace  of  Shene,  the  noonday  sun  shone  upon 
such  a  spot  as  Armida  might  have  dressed  for  the  subdued  Ri- 
naldo.  A  space  had  been  cleared  of  trees  and  underwood,  and 
made  level  as  a  bowling  green.  Around  this  space  the  huge 
oak  and  the  broad  beech  were  hung  with  trellis-work,  wreathed 
with  jasmine,  honeysuckle,  and  the  white  rose,  trained  in 
arches.  Ever  and  anon  through  these  arches  extended  long 
alleys,  or  vistas,  gradually  lost  in  the  cool  depth  of  foliage ; 
amidst  these  alleys  and  around  this  space,  numberless  arbors, 
quaint  with  all  the  flowers  then  known  in  England,  were  con- 
structed. In  the  centre  of  the  sward  was  a  small  artificial  lake, 
long  since  dried  up,  and  adorned  then  with  a  profusion  of 
fountains,  that  seemed  to  scatter  coolness  around  the  glowing 
air.  Pitched  in  various  and  appropriate  sites  were  tents  of  silk 
and  the  white  cloth  of  Rennes,  each  tent  so  placed  as  to  com- 
mand one  of  the  alleys ;  and  at  the  opening  of  each  stood  cav- 
alier or  dame,  with  the  bow  or  cross-bow,  as  it  pleased  the 
fancy  or  suited  best  the  skill,  looking  for  the  quarry,  which 
horn  ^nd  hound  drove  fast  and  frequent  across  the  alleys, 


2*8  THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

Such  was  the  luxurious  '  'summer-chase"  of  the  Sardanapalus  of 
the  North.  Nor  could  any  spectacle  more  thoroughly  repre- 
sent that  poetical  yet  effeminate  taste,  which  borrowed  from 
the  Italians,  made  a  short  interval  between  the  chivalric  and 
the  modern  age.  The  exceeding  beauty  of  the  day;  the  rich- 
ness of  the  foliage  in  the  first  suns  of  bright  July;  the  bay  of 
the  dogs ;  the  sound  of  the  mellow  horn ;  the  fragrance  of  the 
air,  heavy  with  noontide  flowers;  the  gay  tents;  the  rich 
dresses  and  fair  faces  and  merry  laughter  of  dame  and  don- 
zell — combined  to  take  captive  every  sense,  and  to  reconcile 
ambition  itself — that  eternal  traveller  through  the  future — to 
the  enjoyment  of  the  voluptuous  hour.  But  there  were  illus- 
trious exceptions  to  the  contentment  of  the  general  company. 

A  courier  had  arrived  that  morning  to  apprise  Edward  of 
the  unexpected  debarkation  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  with  the 
Archbishop  of  Narbonne  and  the  Bastard  of  Bourbon,  the 
ambassadors  commissioned  by  Louis  to  settle  the  preliminaries 
of  the  marriage  between  Margaret  and  his  brother. 

This  unwelcome  intelligence  reached  Edward  at  the  very 
moment  he  was  sallying  from  his  palace  gates  to  his  pleasant 
pastime.  He  took  aside  Lord  Hastings,  and  communicated 
the  news  to  his  able  favorite.  "Put  spurs  to  thy  horse,  Hast- 
ings, and  hie  thee  fast  to  Baynard's  Castle.  Bring  back  Glou- 
cester. In  these  difficult  matters,  that  boy's  head  is  better 
than  a  council." 

"Your  Highness,"  said  Hastings,  tightening  his  girdle  with 
ane  hand,  while  with  the  other  he  shortened  his  stirrups, 
"shall  be  obeyed.  I  foresaw,  sire,  that  this  coming  would 
occasion  much  that  my  Lords  Rivers  and  Worcester  have  over- 
looked. I  rejoice  that  you  summon  the  Prince  Richard,  who 
hath  wisely  forborne  all  countenance  to  the  Burgundian  envoy. 
But  is  this  all,  sire?  Is  it  not  well  to  assemble  also  your  trusti- 
est lords  and  most  learned  prelates,  if  not  to  overawe  Lord 
Warwick's  anger,  at  least  to  confer  on  the  fitting  excuses  to  be 
made  to  King  Louis's  ambassadors?" 

"And  so  lose  the  fairest  day  this  summer  hath  bestowed 
upon  us?  Tush! — the  more  need  for  pleasaunce  to-day,  since 
business  mast  come  to-morrow.  Away  with  you,  dear  Will!" 

Hastings  looked  grave,  but  he  saw  all  further  remonstrance 
would  be  in  vain,  and  hoping  much  from  the  intercession  of 
Gloucester,  put  spurs  to  his  steed  and  vanished.  Edward 
mused  a  moment ;  and  Elizabeth,  who  knew  every  expression 
and  change  of  his  countenance,  rode  from  the  circle  of  her 
ladies,  and  approached  him  timidly.  Casting  down  her  eyes, 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  329 

which  she  always  affected  in  speaking  to  her  lord,  the  Queen 
said  softly: 

"Something  hath  disturbed  my  liege  and  my  life's  life." 

"Marry,  yes,  sweet  Bessee.  Last  night,  to  pleasure  thee  and 
thy  kin  (and  sooth  to  say,  small  gratitude  ye  owe  me,  for  it 
also  pleased  myself),  I  promised  Margaret's  hand,  through  De 
la  Roche,  to  the  heir  of  Burgundy." 

"O  princely  heart!"  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  her  whole  face 
lighted  up  with  triumph,  "ever  seeking  to  make  happy  those  it 
cherishes.  But  is  it  that  which  disturbs  thee — that  which  thou 
repentest?" 

"No,  sweetheart,  no.  Yet  had  it  not  been  for  the  strength 
of  the  clary,  I  should  have  kept  the  Bastard  longer  in  sus- 
pense. But  what  is  done  is  done.  Let  not  thy  roses  wither 
when  thou  hearest  Warwick  is  in  England — nay,  nay,  child, 
look  not  so  appalled— thine  Edward  is  no  infant,  whom  ogre 
and  goblin  scare;  and" — glancing  his  eye  proudly  round  as  he 
spoke,  and  saw  the  goodly  cavalcade  of  his  peers  and  knights, 
with  his  body-guard — tall  and  chosen  veterans — filling  up  the 
palace-yard,  with  the  show  of  casque  and  pike — "and  if  the 
struggle  is  to  come  between  Edward  of  England  and  his  sub- 
ject, never  an  hour  more  ripe  than  this:  my  throne  assured, 
the  new  nobility  I  have  raised,  around  it ;  London  true,  mar- 
row and  heart,  true;  the  provinces  at  peace;  the  ships  and  the 
steel  of  Burgundy  mine  allies!  Let  the  White  Bear  growl  as 
he  list,  the  Lion  of  March  is  lord  of  the  forest.  And  now,  my 
Bessee,"  added  the  King,  changing  his  haughty  tone  into  a 
gay,  careless  laugh,  "now  let  the  lion  enjoy  his  chase." 

He  kissed  the  gloved  hand  of  his  Queen,  gallantly  bending 
over  his  saddle-bow,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  by  the  side 
of  a  younger,  if  not  a  fairer  lady,  to  whom  he  was  devoting  the 
momentary  worship  of  his  inconstant  heart.  Elizabeth's  eyes 
shot  an  angry  gleam  as  she  beheld  her  faithless  lord  thus  en* 
gaged;  but  so  accustomed  to  conceal  and  control  the  natural 
jealousy,  that  it  never  betrayed  itself  to  the  court  or  to  her 
husband,  she  soon  composed  her  countenance  to  its  ordinary 
smooth  and  artificial  smile,  and  rejoining  her  mother,  she  re- 
vealed what  had  passed.  The  proud  and  masculine  spirit  of 
the  Duchess  felt  only  joy  at  the  intelligence.  In  the  antici- 
pated humiliation  of  Warwick,  she  forgot  all  cause  for  fear — 
not  so  her  husband  and  son,  the  Lords  Rivers  and  Scales,  to 
whom  the  news  soon  travelled. 

"Anthony,"  whispered  the  father,  "in  this  game  we  have 
staked  our  heads." 


230  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"But  our  right  hands  can  guard  them  well,  sir,"  answered 
Anthony;  "and  so  God  and  the  ladies  for  our  rights!" 

Yet  this  bold  reply  did  not  satisfy  the  more  thoughtful  judg- 
ment of  the  Lord  Treasurer,  and  even  the  brave  Anthony's 
arrows  that  day  wandered  wide  of  their  quarry. 

Amidst  this  gay  scene,  then,  there  were  anxious  and 
thoughtful  bosoms.  Lord  Rivers  was  silent  and  abstracted; 
his  son's  laugh  was  hollow  and  constrained;  the  Queen,  from 
her  pavilion,  cast,  ever  and  anon,  down  the  green  alleys  more 
restless  and  prying  looks  than  the  hare  or  the  deer  could  call 
forth;  her  mother's  brow  was  knit  and  flushed — and  keenly 
were  those  illustrious  persons  watched  by  one  deeply  inter- 
ested in  the  coming  events.  Affecting  to  discharge  the  pleas- 
ant duty  assigned  him  by  the  King,  the  Lord  Montagu  glided 
from  tent  to  tent,  inquiring  courteously  into  the  accommo- 
dation of  each  group,  lingering,  smiling,  complimenting,  watch- 
ing, heeding,  studying,  those  whom  he  addressed.  For  the 
first  time  since  the  Bastard's  visit  he  had  joined  in  the  di- 
versions in  its  honor,  and  yet,  so  well  had  Montagu  played  his 
part  at  the  court,  that  he  did  not  excite  amongst  the  Queen's 
relatives  any  of  the  hostile  feelings  entertained  towards  his 
brother.  No  man,  except  Hastings,  was  so  "entirely  loved" 
by  Edward;  and  Montagu,  worldly  as  he  was,  and  indignant 
against  the  King  as  he  could  not  fail  to  be,  so  far  repaid  the 
affection,  that  his  chief  fear  at  that  moment  sincerely  was,  not 
for  Warwick,  but  for  Edward.  He  alone  of  those  present  was 
aware  of  the  cause  of  Warwick's  hasty  return,  for  he  had  pri- 
vately despatched  to  him  the  news  of  the  Bastard's  visit,  its 
real  object,  and  the  inevitable  success  of  the  intrigues  afloat, 
unless  the  Earl  could  return  at  once,  his  mission  accomplished, 
and  the  ambassadors  of  France  in  his  train ;  and  even  before 
the  courier  dispatched  to  the  King  had  arrived  at  Shene,  a  pri- 
vate hand  had  conveyed  to  Montagu  the  information  that  War- 
wick, justly  roused  and  alarmed,  had  left  the  state  procession 
behind  at  Dover,  and  was  hurrying,  fast  as  relays  of  steeds  and 
his  own  fiery  spirit  could  bear  him,  to  the  presence  of  the  un- 
grateful King. 

Meanwhile  the  noon  had  now  declined,  the  sport  relaxed, 
and  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  from  the  King's  pavilion  pro- 
claimed that  the  lazy  pastime  was  to  give  place  to  the  lux- 
urious banquet. 

At  this  moment,  Montagu  approached  a  tent  remote  from 
the  royal  pavilions,  and,  as  his  noiseless  footstep  crushed 
the  grass,  he  heard  the  sound  of  voices,  in  which  there 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  23! 

was  little  in  unison  with  the  worldly  thoughts  that  filled  his 
breast. 

"Nay,  sweet  mistress,  nay,"  said  a  young  man's  voice,  ear- 
nest with  emotion — "do  not  misthink  me — do  not  deem  me 
bold  and  overweening.  I  have  sought  to  smother  my  love, 
and  to  rate  it,  and  bring  pride  to  my  aid,  but  in  vain ;  and, 
now,  whether  you  will  scorn  my  suit  or  not,  I  remember, 
Sibyll — O  Sibyll!  I  remember  the  days  when  we  conversed 
together,  and  as  a  brother,  if  nothing  else — nothing  dearer — I 
pray  you  to  pause  well,  and  consider  what  manner  of  man  this 
Lord  Hastings  is  said  to  be!" 

"Master  Nevile,  is  this  generous?  Why  afflict  me  thus? 
Why  couple  my  name  with  so  great  a  lord's?" 

"Because — beware — the  young  gallants  already  so  couple  it, 
and  their  prophecies  are  not  to  thine  honor,  Sibyll.  Nay,  do 
not  frown  on  me.  I  know  thou  art  fair  and  winsome,  and  deftly 
gifted,  and  thy  father  may,  for  aught  I  know,  be  able  to  coin 
thee  a  queen's  bower  out  of  his  awesome  engines.  But  Hast- 
ings will  not  wed  thee,  and  his  wooing,  therefore,  but  stains 
thy  fair  repute;  while  I — " 

"You!"  said  Montagu,  entering  suddenly — "y°u>  kinsman, 
may  look  to  higher  fortunes  than  the  Duchess  of  Bedford's 
waiting-damsel  can  bring  to  thy  honest  love.  How  now,  mis- 
tress, say — wilt  thou  take  this  young  gentleman  for  loving  fere 
and  plighted  spouse?  If  so,  he  shall  give  thee  a  manor  for 
jointure,  and  thou  shalt  wear  velvet  robe  and  gold  chain,  as  a 
knight's  wife." 

This  unexpected  interference,  which  was  perfectly  in  char- 
acter with  the  great  lords,  who  frequently  wooed  in  very  per- 
emptory tones  for  their  clients  and  kinsmen,*  completed  the 
displeasure  which  the  blunt  Marmaduke  had  already  called 
forth  in  Sibyll's  gentle  but  proud  nature.  "Speak,  maiden, 
ay  or  no?"  continued  Montagu,  surprised  and  angered  at  the 
haughty  silence  of  one  whom  he  just  knew  by  sight  and  name, 
though  he  had  never  before  addressed  her. 

"No,  my  lord,"  answered  Sibyll,  keeping  down  her  indig- 
nation at  this  tone,  though  it  burned  in  her  cheek,  flashed  in 
her  eye,  and  swelled  in  the  heave  of  her  breast.  "No!  and 
your  kinsman  might  have  spared  this  affront  to  one  whom — 
but  it  matters  not."  She  swept  from  the  tent  as  she  said  this, 
and  passed  up  the  alley,  into  that  of  the  Queen's  mother. 

*  See,  in  Miss  Strickland's  "  Life  of  Elizabeth  Woodville,"  the  curious  letters  which  the 
Duke  of  York  and  the  Earl  of  Warwick  addressed  to  her,  then  a  simple  maiden,  in  favor 
of  their proMtf^  Sir  R.  Johnes. 


232  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"Best  so;  thou  art  too  young  for  marriage,  Marmaduke,  ' 
said  Montagu  coldly.  "We  will  find  thee  a  richer  bride  e:e 
long.  There  is  Mary  of  Winstown — the  Archbishop's  ward — 
with  two  castles,  and  seven  knight's  fees." 

"But  so  marvellously  ill-featured,  my  lord,"  said  poor  Mar- 
maduke, sighing. 

Montagu  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  "Wives,  sir,"  he  said, 
"are  not  made  to  look  at — unless,  indeed,  they  be  the  wives  of 
other  men.  But  dismiss  these  follies  for  the  nonce.  Back  to 
thy  post  by  the  King's  pavilion;  and  by  the  way,  ask  Lord 
Fauconberg  and  Aymer  Nevile,  whom  thou  wilt  pass  by  yon- 
der arbor — ask  them  in  my  name,  to  be  near  the  pavilion  while 
the  King  banquets.  A  word  in  thine  ear — ere  yon  sun  gilds 
the  tops  of  those  green  oaks,  the  Earl  of  Warwick  will  be 
with  Edward  IV. ;  and  come  what  may,  some  brave  hearts 
should  be  by  to  welcome  him.  Go!" 

Without  tarrying  for  an  answer,  Montagu  turned  into  one  of 
the  tents,  wherein  Raoul  de  Fulke  and  the  Lord  St.  John, 
heedless  of  hind  and  hart,  conferred,  and  Marmaduke,  much 
bewildered,  and  bitterly  wroth  with  Sibyll,  went  his  way. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  GREAT  ACTOR  RETURNS  TO  FILL  THE  STAGE. 

AND  now,  in  various  groups,  these  summer  foresters  were  at 
rest  in  their  afternoon  banquet;  some  lying  on  the  smooth  sward 
around  the  lake;  some  in  the  tents;  some  again  in  the  arbors; 
here  and  there  the  forms  of  dame  and  cavalier  might  be  seen, 
stealing  apart  from  the  rest,  and  gliding  down  the  alleys  till  lost 
in  the  shade — for  under  that  reign,  gallantry  was  universal. 
Before  the  King's  pavilion  a  band  of  those  merry  jongleurs,  into 
whom  the  ancient  and  honored  minstrels  were  fast  degenerat- 
ing, stood  waiting  for  the  signal  to  commence  their  sports,  and 
listening  to  the  laughter  that  came  in  frequent  peals  from  the 
royal  tent.  Within  feasted  Edward,  the  Count  de  la  Roche, 
the  Lord  Rivers ;  while  in  a  larger  and  more  splendid  pavilion, 
at  some  little  distance,  the  Queen,  her  mother,  and  the  great 
dames  of  the  court,  held  their  own  slighter  and  less  noisy  repast. 

"And  here,  then,"  said  Edward,  as  he  put  his  lips  to  a  gold 
goblet,  wrought  with  gems,  and  passed  it  to  Anthony  the  Bas- 
tard— "here,  Count,  we  take  the  first  waissall  to  the  loves  of 
Charolois  and  Margaret!" 

The  Count  drained  the  goblet,  and  the  wine  gave  him  new  fire. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  233 

"And  with  those  loves,  King,"  said  he,  "we  bind  forever 
Burgundy  and  England.  Woe  to  France!" 

"Ay,  woe  to  France!"  exclaimed  Edward,  his  face  lighting 
up  with  that  martial  joy  which  it  ever  took  at  the  thoughts  of 
war — "for  we  will  wrench  her  lands  from  this  huckster,  Louis. 
By  Heaven !  I  shall  not  rest  in  peace  till  York  hath  regained 
what  Lancaster  hath  lost ;  and  out  of  the  parings  of  the  realm 
which  I  will  add  to  England,  thy  brother  of  Burgundy  shall 
have  eno'  to  change  his  Duke's  diadem  for  a  King's.  How 
now,  Rivers?  Thou  gloomest,  father  mine." 

"My  liege,"  said  Rivers,  wakening  himself,  "I  did  but  think 
that  if  the  Earl  of  Warwick — " 

"Ah!  I  had  forgotten,"  interrupted  Edward;  "and,  sooth 
to  say,  Count  Anthony,  I  think  if  the  Earl  were  by,  he  would 
not  much  mend  our  boon  fellowship!" 

"Yet  a  good  subject,"  said  De  la  Roche  sneeringly,  "usually 
dresses  his  face  by  that  of  his  king." 

"A  subject!  Ay,  but  Warwick  is  much  such  a  subject  to 
England  as  William  of  Normandy  or  Duke  Rollo  was  to  France. 
Howbeit,  let  him  come — our  realm  is  at  peace — we  want  no 
more  his  battle-axe ;  and  in  our  new  designs  on  France,  thy 
brother,  bold  Count,  is  an  ally  that  might  compensate  for  a 
greater  loss  than  a  sullen  minister.  Let  him  come!" 

As  the  King  spoke,  there  was  heard  gently  upon  the  smooth 
turf  the  sound  of  the  hoofs  of  steeds.  A  moment  more,  and 
from  the  outskirts  of  the  scene  of  revel,  where  the  King's  guards 
were  stationed,  there  arose  a  long,  loud  shout.  Nearer  and 
nearer  came  the  hoofs  of  the  steeds — they  paused.  "Doubt- 
less Richard  of  Gloucester,  by  that  shout!  The  soldiers  love 
that  brave  boy,"  said  the  King. 

Marmaduke  Nevile,  as  gentleman  in  waiting,  drew  aside  the 
curtain  of  the  pavilion ;  and  as  he  uttered  a  name  that  paled 
the  cheeks  of  all  who  heard,  the  Earl  of  Warwick  entered  the 
royal  presence. 

The  Earl's  dress  was  disordered  and  soiled  by  travel;  the 
black  plume  on  his  cap  was  broken,  and  hung  darkly  over  his 
face;  his  horseman's  boots,  coming  half-way  up  the  thigh,  were 
sullied  with  the  dust  of  the  journey;  and  yet  as  he  entered,  be- 
fore the  majesty  of  his  mien,  the  grandeur  of  his  stature,  sud- 
denly De  la  Roche,  Rivers,  even  the  gorgeous  Edward  himself, 
seemed  dwarfed  into  common  men !  About  the  man — his  air, 
his  eyes,  his  form,  his  attitude — there  was  THAT  which,  in  the 
earlier  times,  made  kings,  by  the  acclamation  of  the  crowd — an 
unmistakable  sovereignty,  as  one  of  whom  Nature  herself  had 


234  THE    LAST    OK    THK    BARONS. 

shaped  and  stamped  for  power  and  for  rule.  All  three  had  risen 
as  he  entered ;  and  to  a  deep  silence  suceeded  an  exclamation 
from  Edward,  and  then  again  all  was  still. 

The  Earl  stood  a  second  or  two  calmly  gazing  on  the  effect 
he  had  produced ;  and  turning  his  dark  eye  from  one  to  the 
other,  till  it  rested  full  upon  De  la  Roche,  who,  after  vainly 
striving  not  to  quail  beneath  the  gaze,  finally  smiled  with  af- 
fected disdain,  and,  resting  his  hand  on  his  dagger,  sunk  back 
into  his  seat. 

"My  liege, "  then  said  Warwick,  doffing  his  cap,  and  approach- 
ing the  King  with  slow  and  grave  respect,  "I  crave  pardon  for 
presenting  myself  to  your  Highness  thus  travel-worn  and  dis- 
ordered, but  I  announce  that  news  which  insures  my  welcome. 
The  solemn  embassy  of  trust  committed  to  me  by  your  grace 
has  prospered  with  God's  blessing;  and  the  Fils  de  Bourbon 
and  the  Archbishop  of  Narbonne  are  on  their  way  to  your  me- 
tropolis. Alliance  between  the  two  great  monarchies  of  Europe 
is  concluded  on  terms  that  insure  the  weal  of  England,  and 
augment  the  lustre  of  your  crown.  Your  claims  on  Normandy 
and  Guienne,  King  Louis  consents  to  submit  to  the  arbitrement 
of  the  Roman  Pontiff,*  and  to  pay  to  your  treasury  annual  trib- 
ute ;  these  advantages,  greater  than  your  Highness  even  em- 
powered me  to  demand,  thus  obtained,  the  royal  brother  of 
your  new  ally  joyfully  awaits  the  hand  of  the  Lady  Margaret." 

"Cousin,"  said  Edward,  who  had  thoroughly  recovered  him- 
self, motioning  the  Earl  to  a  seat,  "you  are  ever  welcome,  no 
matter  what  your  news ;  but  I  marvel  much  that  so  deft  a  states- 
man should  broach  these  matters  of  council  in  the  unseasona- 
ble hour,  and  before  the  gay  comrades,  of  a  revel." 

"I  speak,  sire,"  said  Warwick  calmly,  though  the  veins  in  his 
forehead  swelled,  and  his  dark  countenance  was  much  flushed — 
"I  speak  openly  of  that  which  hath  been  done  nobly;  and  this 
truth  has  ceased  to  be  matter  of  council,  since  the  meanest  citi- 
zen who  hath  ears  and  eyes,  ere  this,  must  know  for  what  pur- 
pose the  ambassadors  of  King  Louis  arrive  in  England  with 
your  Highness's  representative." 

Edward,  more  embarrassed  at  this  tone  than  he  could  have 
foreseen,  remained  silent;  but  De  la  Roche,  impatient  to  hum- 
ble his  brother's  foe,  and  judging  it  also  discreet  to  arouse  the 
King,  said  carelessly : 

"It  were  a  pity,  Sir  Earl,  that  the  citizens,  whom  you  thus 
deem  privy  to  the  thoughts  of  kings,  had  not  prevised  the  Arch- 

*  The  Pope,  moreover,  was  to  be  engaged  to  decide  the  question  within  four  years.  A 
Hior?  brilliant  treaty  for  England,  Edward's  ambassador  could  not  have  effected. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  235 

bishop  of  Narbonne,  that,  if  he  desire  to  see  a  fairer  show  than 
even  the  palaces  of  Westminster  and  the  Tower,  he  will  hasten 
back  to  behold  the  banners  of  Burgundy  and  England  waving 
from  the  spires  of  Notre  Dame." 

Ere  the  Bastard  had  concluded,  Rivers,  leaning  back,  whis- 
pered the  King:  "For  Christ's  sake,  sire,  select  some  fitter 
scene  for  what  must  follow!  Silence  your  guest!" 

But  Edward,  on  the  contrary,  pleased  to  think  that  De  la 
Roche  was  breaking  the  ice,  and  hopeful  that  some  burst  from 
Warwick  would  give  him  more  excuse  than  he  felt  at  present 
fora  rupture,  said  sternly:  "Hush,  my  lord,  and  meddle  not!" 

"Unless  I  mistake,"  said  Warwick  coldly,  "he  who  now  ac- 
costs me  is  the  Count  de  la  Roche — a  foreigner." 

"And  the  brother  of  the  heir  of  Burgundy,"  interrupted  De 
la  Roche — "brother  to  the  betrothed  and  princely  spouse  of 
Margaret  of  England." 

"Doth  this  man  lie,  sire?"  said  Warwick,  who  had  seated 
himself  a  moment,  and  who  now  rose  again. 

The  Bastard  sprung  also  to  his  feet,  but  Edward,  waiving 
him  back,  and  reassuming  the  external  dignity  which  rarely  for- 
sook him,  replied:  "Cousin,  thy  question  lacketh  courtesy  to 
our  noble  guest :  since  thy  departure,  reasons  of  state,  which 
we  will  impart  to  thee  at  a  meeter  season,  have  changed  our 
purpose,  and  we  will  now  that  our  Sister  Margaret  shall  wed 
with  the  Count  of  Charolois." 

"And  this  to  me,  King!"  exclaimed  the  Earl,  all  his  passions 
at  once  released — "this  to  me!  Nay,  frown  not,  Edward — I 
am  of  the  race  of  those  who,  greater  than  kings,  have  buil* 
thrones  and  toppled  them!  I  tell  thee,  thou  hast  misused  mine 
honor,  and  belied  thine  own ;  thou  hast  debased  thyself  in  jug- 
gling me,  delegated  as  the  representative  of  thy  royalty!  Lord 
Rivers,  stand  back — there  are  barriers  eno'  between  truth  and 
a  King!" 

"By  St.  George  and  my  father's  head!"  cried  Edward,  with 
a  rage  no  less  fierce  than  Warwick's,  "thou  abusest,  false  lord, 
my  mercy  and  our  kindred  blood.  Another  word,  and  thou 
leavest  this  pavilion  for  the  Tower!" 

"King!"  replied  Warwick  scornfully,  and  folding  his  arms 
on  his  broad  breast — "there  is  not  a  hair  on  this  head  which 
thy  whole  house,  thy  guards,  and  thine  armies  could  dare  to 
touch.  ME  to  the  Tower !  Send  me — and  when  the  third  sun 
reddens  the  roof  of  prison-house  and  palace — look  round  broad 
England,  and  miss  a  throne!" 

"What  ho,  there!"  exclaimed  Edward,  stamping  his  foot; 


336  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

and  at  that  instant  the  curtain  of  the  pavilion  was  hastily  torn 
aside,  and  Richard  of  Gloucester  entered,  followed  by  Lord 
Hastings,  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  and  Anthony  Woodville. 

"Ah!"  continued  the  King,  "ye  come  in  time.  George  of 
Clarence,  Lord  High  Constable  of  England,  arrest  yon  haughty 
man  who  dares  to  menace  his  liege  and  suzerain!" 

Gliding  between  Clarence,  who  stood  dumb  and  thunder- 
stricken,  and  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  Prince  Richard  said,  in  a 
voice  which,  though  even  softer  than  usual,  had  in  it  more  com- 
mand over  those  who  heard  than  when  it  rolled  in  thunder 
along  the  ranks  of  Barnet  or  of  Bosworth:  "Edward,  my 
brother,  remember  Teuton,  and  forbear — Warwick,  my  cousin, 
forget  not  thy  King  nor  his  dead  father!" 

At  these  last  words  the  Earl's  face  fell;  for  to  that  father 
he  had  sworn  to  succor  and  defend  the  sons:  his  sense  recover- 
ing from  his  pride,  showed  him  how  much  his  intemperate  an- 
ger had  thrown  away  his  advantages  in  the  foul  wrong  he  had 
sustained  from  Edward.  Meanwhile  the  King  himself,  with 
flashing  eyes,  and  a  crest  as  high  as  Warwick's,  was  about,  per- 
haps, to  overthrow  his  throne,  by  the  attempt  to  enforce  his 
threat,  when  Anthony  Woodville,  who  followed  Clarence,  whis- 
pered to  him:  "Beware,  sire!  a  countless  crowd,  that  seem  to 
have  followed  the  Earl's  steps,  have  already  pierced  the  chase, 
and  can  scarcely  be  kept  from  the  spot,  so  great  is  their  desire 
to  behold  him.  Beware!" — and  Richard's  quick  ear  catching 
these  whispered  words,  the  Duke  suddenly  backed  them  by 
again  drawing  aside  the  curtain  of  the  tent.  Along  the  sward, 
the  guard  of  the  King,  summoned  from  their  unseen  but  neigh- 
boring post  within  the  wood,  were  drawn  up  as  if  to  keep  back 
an  immense  multitude — men,  women,  children,  who  swayed,  and 
rustled,  and  murmured  in  the  rear.  But  no  sooner  was  the  cur- 
tain drawn  aside,  and  the  guards  themselves  caught  sight  of  the 
royal  princes,  and  the  great  Earl  towering  amidst  them,  than 
supposing,  in  their  ignorance,  the  scene  thus  given  to  them 
was  intended  for. their  gratification,  from  that  old  soldiery  of 
Teuton  rose  a  loud  and  long:  "Hurrah — Warwick  and  the 
King" — "The  King  and  the  stout  Earl."  The  multitude  be- 
hind caught  the  cry ;  they  rushed  forward,  mingling  with  the 
soldiery,  who  no  longer  sought  to  keep  them  back. 

"A  Warwick!  a  Warwick!"  they  shouted. 

"God  bless  the  people's  friend!" 

Edward,  startled  and  aghast,  drew  sullenly  into  the  rear  of 
the  tent. 

De   la   Roche   grew   pale,    but   with   the  promptness   of   a 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  237 

practised  statesman,  he  hastily  advanced,  and  drew  the 
curtain. 

"Shall  varlets,"  he  said  to  Richard,  in  French,  "gloat  over 
the  quarrels  of  their  lords?" 

"You  are  right,  Sir  Count,"  murmured  Richard  meekly; 
his  purpose  was  effected,  and  leaning  on  his  riding  staff,  he 
awaited  what  was  to  ensue. 

A  softer  shade  had  fallen  over  the  Earl's  face,  at  the  proof 
of  the  love  in  which  his  name  was  held ;  it  almost  seemed  to  his 
noble,  though  haughty  and  impatient  nature,  as  if  the  affection 
of  the  people  had  reconciled  him  to  the  ingratitude  of  the  King. 
A  tear  started  to  his  proud  eye,  bujt  he  twinkled  it  away,  and 
approaching  Edward  (who  remained  erect,  and  with  all  a  sover- 
eign's wrath,  though  silent  on  his  lip,  lowering  on  his  brow), 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed  emotion : 

"Sire,  it  is  not  for  me  to  crave  pardon  of  living  man,  but  the 
grievous  affront  put  upon  my  state  and  mine  honor  hath  led 
my  words  to  an  excess  which  my  heart  repents.  I  grieve  that 
your  Grace's  Highness  hath  chosen  this  alliance;  hereafter  you 
may  find  at  need  what  faith  is  to  be  placed  in  Burgundy." 

"Darest  thou  gainsay  it?"  exclaimed  De  la  Roche. 

"Interrupt  me  not,  sir!"  continued  Warwick,  with  a  disdain- 
ful gesture.  "My  liege,  I  lay  down  mine  offices,  and  I  leave 
it  to  your  Grace  to  account  as  it  lists  you  to  the  ambassadors 
of  France — I  shall  vindicate  myself  to  their  King.  And  now, 
ere  I  depart  for  my  hall  of  Middleham,  I  alone  here,  unarmed 
and  unattended,  save,  at  least,  by  a  single  squire,  I,  Richard 
Nevile,  say  that  if  any  man,  peer  or  knight,  can  be  found  to 
execute  your  Grace's  threat,  and  arrest  me,  I  will  obey  yout 
royal  pleasure,  and  attend  him  to  the  Tower."  Haughtily  he 
bowed  his  head  as  he  spoke,  and  raising  it  again,  gazed  around: 
"I  await  your  Grace's  pleasure." 

"Begone  where  thou  wilt,  Earl.  From  this  day  Edward  IV., 
reigns  alone,"  said  the  King.  Warwick  turned. 

"My  Lord  Scales,"  said  he,  "lift  the  curtain;  nay,  sir,  it 
misdemeans  you  not.  You  are  still  the  son  of  the  Woodville, 
I  still  the  descendant  of  John  of  Gaunt." 

"Not  for  the  dead  ancestor,  but  for  the  living  warrior, "  said 
the  Lord  Scales,  lifting  the  curtain,  and  bowing  with  knightly 
grace  as  the  Earl  passed.  And  scarcely  was  Warwick  in  the 
open  space,  than  the  crowd  fairly  broke  through  all  restraint, 
and  the  clamor  of  their  joy  filled  with  its  hateful  thunders  the 
royal  tent. 

"Edward,"  said  Richard  whisperingly,  and  laying  his  finger 


238  THE  LAST  OF  THE  DARONS. 

on  his  brother's  arm — "forgive  me  if  I  offended,  but  had  you, 
at  such  a  time,  resolved  on  violence — " 

"I  see  it  all — you  were  right.  But  is  this  to  be  endured  for- 
ever?" 

"Sire,"  returned  Richard,  with  his  dark  smile,  "rest  calm; 
for  the  age  is  your  best  ally,  and  the  age  is  outgrowing  the  steel 
and  hauberk.  A  little  while,  and — " 

"And  what — " 

"And — ah,  sire,  I  will  answer  that  question  when  our  brother 
George  (mark  him !)  either  refrains  from  listening,  or  is  married 
to  Isabel  Nevile,  and  hath  quarrel  with  her  father  about  the 
dowry.  What,  ho,  there! — let  the  jongleurs  perform." 

"The  jongleurs!"  exclairried  the  King;  "why,  Richard,  thou 
hast  more  levity  than  myself!" 

"Pardon  me!  Let  the  jongleurs  perform,  and  bid  the  crowd 
stay.  It  is  by  laughing  at  the  mountebanks  that  your  Grace 
can  best  lead  the  people  to  forget  their  Warwick ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  X. 

HOW    THE    GREAT     LORDS    COME     TO    THE     KING-MAKER,     AND 
WITH    WHAT    PROFFERS. 

MASTERING  the  emotions  that  swelled  within  him,  Lord  War- 
wick returned,  with  his  wonted  cheerful  courtesy,  the  welcome 
of  the  crowd,  and  the  enthusiastic  salutations  of  the  King's 
guard ;  but  as,  at  length,  he  mounted  his  steed,  and  attended 
but  by  the  squire  who  had  followed  him  from  Dover,  penetrated 
into  the  solitudes  of  the  chase,  the  recollection  of  the  indignity 
he  had  suffered  smote  his  proud  heart  so  sorely  that  he  groaned 
aloud.  His  squire,  fearing  the  fatigue  he  had  undergone  might 
have  affected  even  that  iron  health,  rode  up  at  the  sound  of  the 
groan,  and  Warwick's  face  was  hueless  as  he  said,  with  a  forced 
smile:  "It  is  nothing,  Walter.  But  these  heats  are  oppressive, 
and  we  have  forgotten  our  morning  draught,  friend.  Hark! 
I  hear  the  brawl  of  a  rivulet,  and  a  drink  of  fresh  water  were 
more  grateful  now  than  the  daintiest  hippocras. "  So  saying, 
he  flung  himself  from  his  steed ;  following  the  sound  of  the 
rivulet,  he  gained  its  banks,  and  after  quenching  his  thirst  in 
the  hollow  of  his  hand,  laid  himself  down  upon  the  long  grass, 
waving  coolly  over  the  margin,  and  fell  into  profound  thought. 
From  this  revery  he  was  roused  by  a  quick  footstep,  and  as  he 
lifted  his  gloomy  gaze,  he  beheld  Marmaduke  Nevile  by  his 
side. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  2$$ 

"Well,  young  man,"  said  he  sternly,  "with  what  messages 
art  thou  charged?" 

"With  none,  my  lord  Earl.  I  await  now  no  commands  but 
thine." 

"Thou  knowest  not,  poor  youth,  that  I  can  serve  thee  no 
more.  Go  back  to  the  court." 

"Oh,  Warwick,"  said  Marmaduke,  with  simple  eloquence, 
"send  me  not  from  thy  side!  This  day  I  have  been  rejected 
by  the  maid  I  loved.  I  loved  her  well,  and  my  heart  chafed 
sorely,  and  bled  within;  but  now,  methinks,  it  consoles  me  to 
have  been  so  cast  off — to  have  no  faith,  no  love,  but  that  which 
is  best  of  all,  to  a  brave  man — love  and  faith  for  a  hero-chief! 
Where  thy  fortunes,  there  be  my  humble  fate — to  rise  or  fall 
with  thee!" 

Warwick  looked  intently  upon  his  young  kinsman's  face,  and 
said,  as  to  himself:  "Why  this  is  strange!  I  gave  no  throne  to 
this  man,  and  he  deserts  me  not!  My  friend,"  he  added,  aloud, 
"have  they  told  thee  already  that  I  am  disgraced?" 

"I  heard  the  Lord  Scales  say  to  the  young  Lovell  that  thou 
wert  dismissed  from  all  thine  offices;  and  I  came  hither;  for  I 
will  serve  no  more  the  King  who  forgets  the  arm  and  heart  to 
which  he  owes  a  kingdom." 

"Man,  I  accept  thy  loyalty!"  exclaimed  Warwick,  starting  to 
his  feet;  "and  know  that  thou  hast  done  more  to  melt,  and  yet 
to  nerve  my  spirit  than — but  complaints  in  me  are  idle,  and 
praise  were  no  reward  to  thee." 

"But  see,  my  lord,  if  the  first  to  join  thee,  I  am  not  the  sole, 
one.  See,  brave  Raoul  de  Fulke,  the  Lords  of  St.  John,  Ber- 
gavenny,  and  Fitzhugh,  ay,  and  fifty  others  of  the  best  blood 
of  England,  are  on  thy  track." 

And  as  he  spoke,  plumes  and  tunics  where  seen  gleaming  up 
the  forest  path,  and  in  another  moment  a  troop  of  knights  and 
gentlemen,  comprising  the  flower  of  such  of  the  ancient  no- 
bility as  yet  lingered  round  the  court,  came  up  to  Warwick, 
bareheaded. 

"Is  it  possible,"  cried  Raoul  de  Fulke,  "that  we  have  heard 
aright,  noble  Earl?  And  has  Edward  IV.  suffered  the  base 
Woodvilles  to  triumph  over  the  bulwark  of  his  realm?" 

"Knights  and  gentles!"  said  Warwick,  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"is  it  so  uncommon  a  thing  that  men  in  peace  should  leave  the 
battle-axe  and  brand  to  rust?  I  am  but  an  useless  weapon, 
to  be  suspended  at  rest  amongst  the  trophies  of  Touton  in  my 
hall  of  Middleham." 

"Return  with  us,"  said  the  Lord  of  St.  John,  "and  we  will 


240  "IK    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

make  Edward  do  thee  justice,  or,  one  and  all,  we  will  abandon 
a  court  where  knaves  and  varlets  have  become  mightier  than 
English  valor,  and  nobler  than  Norman  birth." 

"My  friends,"  said  the  Earl,  laying  his  hand  on  St.  John's 
shoulder,  "not  even  in  my  just  wrath  will  I  wrong  my  King. 
He  is  punished  eno*  in  the  choice  he  hath  made.  Poor  Edward 
and  poor  England !  What  woes  and  wars  await  ye  both,  from 
the  gold,  and  the  craft,  and  the  unsparing  hate  of  Louis  XI. ! 
No;  if  I  leave  Edward,  he  hath  more  need  of  you.  Of  mine 
own  free  will,  I  have  resigned  mine  offices." 

"Warwick,"  interrupted  Raoul  de  Fulke,  "this  deceives  us 
not;  and  in  disgrace  to  you,  the  ancient  barons  of  England  be- 
hold the  first  blow  at  their  own  state.  We  have  wrongs  we  en- 
dured in  silence,  while  thou  Avert  the  shield  and  sword  of  yon 
merchant-king.  We  have  seen  the  ancient  peers  of  England  set 
aside  for  men  of  yesterday;  we  have  seen  our  daughters,  sis- 
ters— nay,  our  very  mothers,  if  widowed  and  dowered — forced 
into  disreputable  and  base  wedlock,  with  creatures  dressed  in 
titles,  and  gilded  with  wealth  stolen  from  ourselves.  Merchants 
and  artificers  tread  upon  our  knightly  heels,  and  the  avarice  of 
trade  eats  up  our  chivalry  as  a  rust.  We  nobles,  in  our  greater 
day,  have  had  the  crown  at  our  disposal,  and  William  the  Nor- 
man dared  not  think  what  Edward  Earl  of  March  hath  been 
permitted  with  impunity  to  do.  We,  Sir  Earl — we  knights  and 
barons — would  a  King  simple  in  his  manhood,  and  princely  in 
his  truth.  Richard  Earl  of  Warwick,  thou  art  of  royal  blood — 
the  descendant  of  old  John  of  Gaunt.  In  thee  we  behold  the 
true,  the  living  likeness  of  the  Third  Edward,  and  the  Hero- 
Prince  of  Cressy.  Speak  but  the  word,  and  we  make  thee 
King!" 

The  descendant  of  the  Norman,  the  representative  of  the 
mighty  faction  that  no  English  monarch  had  ever  braved  in  vain, 
looked  round  as  he  said  these  last  words,  and  a  choral  murmur 
was  heard  through  the  whole  of  that  august  nobility:  "We 
make  thee  King!" 

"Richard,  descendant  of  the  Plantagenet,*  speak  the  word," 
repeated  Raoul  de  Fulke. 

"I  speak  it  not,"  interrupted  Warwick;  "nor  shalt  thou 
continue,  brave  Raoul  de  Fulke.  What,  my  lords  and  gentle- 
men," he  added,  drawing  himself  up,  and  with  his  counte- 
nance animated  with  feelings  it  is  scarcely  possible  in  our 
times  to  sympathize  with  or  make  clear;  "What!  think  you 

*  By  the  female  side,  through  Joan  Beaufort,  or  Plantagenet,  Warwick  was  thi.d  in 
descent  from  John  of  Gaunt,  as  Henry  VII.,  through  the  male  tine,  was/bwrM  in  descent. 


tHE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  241 

that  Ambition  limits  itself  to  the  narrow  circlet  of  a  Crown? 
Greater,  and  more  in  the  spirit  of  our  mighty  fathers,  is  the 
condition  of  men  like  us,  THE  BARONS  who  make  and  un- 
make kings.  What!  who  of  us  would  not  rather  descend 
from  the  Chiefs  of  Runnymede  than  from  the  royal  craven 
whom  they  controlled  and  chid?  By  Heaven,  my  lords,  Rich- 
ard Nevile  has  too  proud  a  soul  to  be  a  king!  A  king — a 
puppet  of  state  and  form !  A  king — a  holiday  show  for  the 
crowd,  to  hiss  or  hurrah,  as  the  humor  seizes!  A  king — a 
beggar  to  the  nation,  wrangling  with  his  Parliament  for  gold ! 
A  king! — Richard  II.  was  a  king,  and  Lancaster  dethroned 
him.  Ye  would  debase  me  to  a  Henry  of  Lancaster.  Mart 
Dieu!  I  thank  ye.  The  Commons  and  the  Lords  raised  him, 
forsooth — for  what?  To  hold  him  as  the  creature  they  had 
made,  to  rate  him,  to  chafe  him,  to  pry  into  his  very  house- 
hold, and  quarrel  with  his  wife's  chamberlains  and  lavorers.* 
What !  dear  Raoul  de  Fulke,  is  thy  friend  fallen  now  so  low, 
that  he — Earl  of  Salisbury  and  of  Warwick,  chief  of  the  three- 
fold race  of  Montagu,  Monthermer,  and  Nevile,  lord  of  a  hun- 
dred baronies,  leader  of  sixty  thousand  followers — is  not  greater 
than  Edward  of  March,  to  whom  we  will  deign  still,  with  your 
permission,  to  vouchsafe  the  name  and  pageant  of  a  king?" 

This  extraordinary  address,  strange  to  say,  so  thoroughly 
expressed  the  peculiar  pride  of  the  old  barons,  that  when  it 
ceased  a  sound  of  admiration  and  applause  circled  through  that 
haughty  audience,  and  Raoul  de  Fulke,  kneeling  suddenly, 
kissed  the  Earl's  hand;  "Oh,  noble  Earl,"  he  said,  "ever  live 
as  one  of  us,  to  maintain  our  Order,  and  teach  kings  and  nations 
what  we  are." 

"Fear  it  not,  Raoul !  fear  it  not — we  will  have  our  rights  yet. 
Return,  I  beseech  ye.  Let  me  feel  I  have  such  friends  about 
the  King.  Even  at  Middleham,  my  eye  shall  watch  over  our 
common  cause;  and  till  seven  feet  of  earth  suffice  him,  your 
brother  baron,  Richard  Nevile,  is  not  a  man  \\{hpm  kings  and 
courts  can  forget,  much  less  dishonor.  Sirs,  our  honor  is  in 
our  bosoms — and  there,  is  the  only  throne  armies  cannot  shake, 
nor  cozeners  undermine." 

With  these  words  he  gently  waved  his  hand,  motioned  to  his 
squire,  who  stood  out  of  hearing  with  the  steeds,  to  approach, 
and  mounting  gravely,  rode  on.  Ere  he  had  got  many  paces, 
he  called  to  Marmaduke,  who  was  on  foot,  and  bade  him  follow 
him  to  London  that  night.  "I  have  strange  tidings  to  tell 

*  Laundresses.  The  Parliamentary  Rolls  in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV.  abound  in  curious 
specimens  of  the  interference  of  the  Commons  with  the  household  of  Henry's  wif«^ 
Queen  Joan. 


24*  THE    LAST   OF   THE    KARONS. 

the  French  envoys,  and  for  England's  sake  I  must  soothe  then 
anger  if  I  can;   then  to  Middleham." 

The  nobles  returned  slowly  to  the  pavilions.  And  as  they 
gained  the  open  space,  where  the  gaudy  tents  still  shone  against 
the  settling  sun,  they  beheld  the  mob  of  that  day  whom  Shak- 
speare  hath  painted  with  such  contempt,  gathering,  laughing  and 
loud,  around  the  mountebank  and  the  conjurer,  who  had  already 
replaced  in  their  thoughts  (as  Gloucester  had  foreseen)  the 
hero-idol  of  their  worship. 


BOOK    V. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS  IN  HIS  FATHER'S  HALLS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

RURAL     ENGLAND     IN     THE      MIDDLE       AGES — NOBLE     VISITORS 
SEEK    THE    CASTLE    OF    MIDDLEHAM. 

AUTUMN  had  succeeded  to  summer — winter  to  autumn — and 
the  spring  of  1468  was  green  in  England,  when  a  gallant  caval- 
cade were  seen  slowly  winding  the  ascent  of  a  long  and  gradual 
hill,  towards  the  decline  of  day.  Different,  indeed,  from  the 
aspect  which  that  part  of  the  country  now  presents  was  the 
landscape  that  lay  around  them,  bathed  in  the  smiles  of  the 
westering  sun.  In  a  valley  to  the  left,  a  full  view  of  which  the 
steep  road  commanded  (where  now  roars  the  din  of  trade 
through  a  thousand  factories),  lay  a  long  secluded  village. 
The  houses,  if  so  they  might  be  called,  were  constructed  en- 
tirely of  wood,  and  that  of  the  more  perishable  kind — willow, 
sallow,  elm,  and  plum  tree.  Not  one  could  boast  a  chimney ; 
but  the  smok^from  the  single  fire  in  each,  after  duly  darken- 
ing the  atmosphere  within,  sent  its  .surplusage,  lazily  and  fit- 
fully, through  a  circular  aperture  in  the  roof.  In  fact,  there 
was  long  in  the  provinces  a  prejudice  against  chimneys!  The 
smoke  was  considered  good  both  for  house  and  owner;  the 
first  it  was  supposed  to  season,  and  the  last  to  guard  "from 
rheums,  catarrhs,  and  poses."  *  Neither  did  one  of  these  habi- 

*  So  worthy  Hollinshed  (Book  ii.,  c.  22):  "Then  had  we  none  but  reredosses,  and 
our  heads  did  nerer  ache.  For  as  the  smote,  in  those  days,  was  supposed  to  be  a  sufficient 
hardening  for  the  timber  of  the  house,  so  it  was  reputed  a  far  better  medicine  to  keep  the 
goodman  and  his  familie  from  the  quacke,  or  pose,  wherewith  as  then  very  few  were  oft 
acquainted." 


THE    LAST    OP    THE   BARONS.  243 

tations  boast  the  comfort  of  a  glazed  .window,  the  substitute 
being  lattice,  or  checker- work — even  in  the  house  of  the  frank- 
lin, which  rose  statelily  above  the  rest,  encompassed  with  barns 
and  outsheds.  And  yet  greatly  should  we  err,  did  we  conceive 
that  these  deficiencies  were  an  index  to  the  general  condition 
of  the  working-class.  Far  better  off  was  the  laborer,  when 
employed,  than  now.  Wages  were  enormously  high,  meat  ex- 
tremely low  ;*  and  our  mother  land  bountifully  maintained  her 
children. 

On  that  greensward,  before  the  village  (now  foul  and  reek- 
ing with  the  squalid  population  whom  commerce  rears  up — 
the  victims,  as  the  movers  of  the  modern  world)  were  assem- 
bled youth  and  age ;  for  it  was  a  holiday  evening,  and  the 
stern  Puritan  had  not  yet  risen  to  sour  the  face  of  Mirth. 
Well  clad  in  leathern  jerkin,  or  even  broadcloth,  the  young 
peasants  vied  with  each  other  in  quoits,  and  wrestling ;  while 
the  merry  laughter  of  the  girls,  in  their  gay-colored  kirtles,  and 
ribboned  hair,  rose  oft  and  cheerily  to  the  ears  of  the  caval- 
cade. From  a  gentle  eminence  beyond  the  village,  and  half- 
veiled  by  trees,  on  which  the  first  verdure  of  spring  was  bud- 
ding (where  now,  around  the  gin-shop,  gather  the  fierce  and 
sickly  children  of  toil  and  of  discontent),  rose  the  venerable 
walls  of  a  monastery,  and  the  chime  of  its  heavy  bell  swung  far 
and  sweet  over  the  pastoral  landscape.  To  the  right  of  the 
road  (where  now  stands  the  sober  meeting-house)  was  one  of 
those  small  shrines,  so  frequent  in  Italy,  with  an  image  of  the 
Virgin  gaudily  painted,  and  before  it  each  cavalier  in  the  pro- 
cession halted  an  instant  to  cross  himself,  and  mutter  an  ave. 
Beyond  still,  to  the  right,  extended  vast  chains  of  woodland, 
interspersed  with  strips  of  pasture,  upon  which  numerous 
flocks  were  grazing,  with  horses,  as  yet  unbroken  to  bit  and 
selle,  that  neighed  and  snorted  as  they  caught  scent  of  their 
more  civilized  brethren  pacing  up  the  road. 

In  front  of  the  cavalcade  rode  two,  evidently  of  superior 
rank  to  the  rest.  The  one  small  and  slight,  with  his  long  hair 
flowing  over  his  shoulders ;  and  the  other,  though  still  young, 
many  years  older;  and  indicating  his  clerical  profession  by  the 
absence  of  all  love-locks,  compensated  by  a  curled  and  glossy 
beard,  trimmed  with  the  greatest  care.  But  the  dress  of  the 
ecclesiastic  was  as  little  according  to  our  modern  notions  of 
what  beseems  the  Church  as  can  well  be  conceived :  his  tunic 

*  See   Hallam's   "  Middle  Ages,"   chap,  xx..  Part  ii.     So  also   Hollinshed,  Book  xi.. 


>o  well  as  the  King  I 


244  fHE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

and  surcoat,  of  a  rich'  amber,  contrasted  well  with  the  clear 
darkness  of  his  complexion ;  his  piked  shoes,  or  beakers,  as 
they  were  called,  turned  up  half-way  to  the  knee ;  the  buckles 
of  his  dress  were  of  gold,  inlaid  with  gems;  and  the  hous- 
ings of  his  horse,  which  was  of  great  power,  were  edged  with 
gold  fringe.  By  the  side  of  his  steed  walked  a  tall  greyhound, 
upon  which  he  ever  and  anon  glanced  with  affection.  Behind 
these  rode  two  gentlemen,  whose  golden  spurs  announced 
knighthood ;  and  then  followed  a  long  train  of  squires  and 
pages,  richly  clad  and  accoutred,  bearing  generally  the  Nevile 
badge  of  the  bull;  though  interspersed  amongst  the  retinue 
might  be  seen  the  grim  boar's  head,  which  Richard  of  Glou- 
cester, in  right  of  his  duchy,  had  assumed  as  his  cognizance. 

"Nay,  sweet  Prince,"  said  the  ecclesiastic,  "I  pray  thee  to 
consider  that  a  greyhound  is  far  more  of  a  gentleman  than  any 
other  of  the  canine  species.  Mark  his  stately,  yet  delicate, 
length  of  limb,  his  sleek  coat,  his  keen  eye,  his  haughty  neck." 

"These  are  but  the  externals,  my  noble  friend.  Will  the 
greyhound  attack  the  lion,  as  our  mastiff  doth?  The  true  char- 
acter of  the  gentleman  is  to  know  no  fear,  and  to  rush  through 
all  danger  at  the  throat  of  his  foe ;  wherefore  I  uphold  the  dig- 
nity of  the  mastiff  above  all  his  tribe,  though  others  have  a 
daintier  hide,  and  a  statelier  crest.  Enough  of  such  matters, 
Archbishop — we  are  nearing  Middleham." 

"The  Saints  be  praised!  for  I  am  hungered,"  observed  the 
Archbishop  piously;  "but,  sooth  to  say,  my  cook  at  the  More 
far  excelleth  what  we  can  hope  to  find  at  the  board  of  my 
brother.  He  hath  some  faults,  our  Warwick!  Hasty  and 
careless,  he  hath  not  thought  eno"  of  the  blessings  he  might 
enjoy,  and  many  a  poor  abbot  hath  daintier  fare  on  his  hum- 
ble table." 

"Oh,  George  Nevile,  who  that  heard  thee,  when  thou  talkest 
of  hounds  and  interments,*  would  recognize  the  Lord  Chancel- 
lor of  England — the  most  learned  dignitary,  the  most  subtle 
statesman?" 

"And  oh,  Richard  Plantagenet, "  retorted  the  Archbishop, 
dropping  the  mincing  and  affected  tone,  which  he  in  common 
with  the  coxcombs  of  that  day,  usually  assumed,  "who  that 
heard  thee,  when  thou  talkest  of  humility  and  devotion,  would 
recognize  the  sternest  heart  and  the  most  daring  ambition  God 
ever  gave  to  prince?" 

Richard  started  at  these  words,  and"  his  eye  shot  fire  as  it 
met  the  keen,  calm  gaze  of  the  prelate. 

*  Interments,  entremets  (side  dishes). 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  245 

"Nay,  your  Grace  wrongs  me,"  he  said,  gnawing  his  lip— 
"or  I  should  not  say  wrongs,  but  flatters;  for  sternness  and 
ambition  are  no  vices  in  a  Nevile's  eyes." 

"Fairly  answered,  royal  son,"  said  the  Archbishop,  laugh- 
ing; "but  let  us  be  frank.  Thou  hast  persuaded  me  to  accom- 
pany thee  to  Lord  Warwick  as  a  mediator :  the  provinces  in 
the  north  are  disturbed ;  the  intrigues  of  Margaret  of  Anjou 
are  restless;  the  King  reaps  what  he  has  sown  in  the  Court  of 
France,  and,  as  Warwick  foretold,  the  emissaries  and  gold  of 
Louis  are  ever  at  work  against  his  throne :  the  great  barons  are 
moody  and  discontented ;  and  our  liege  King  Edward  is  at 
last  aware  that,  if  the  Earl  of  Warwick  do  not  return  to  his 
councils,  the  first  blast  of  a  hostile  trumpet  may  drive  him  from 
his  throne.  Well,  I  attend  thee :  my  fortunes  are  woven  with 
those  of  York,  and  my  interest  and  my  loyalty  go  hand  in 
hand.  Be  equally  frank  with  me.  Hast  thou,  Lord  Richard, 
no  interest  to  serve  in  this  mission  save  that  of  the  public 
weal?" 

"Thou  forgettest  that  the  Lady  Isabel  is  dearly  loved  by 
Clarence,  and  that  I  would  fain  see  removed  all  barrier  to  his 
nuptial  bliss.  But  yonder  rise  the  towers  of  Middleham.  Be- 
loved walls,  which  sheltered  my  childhood!  and,  by  holy  Paul, 
a  noble  pile,  which  would  resist  an  army,  or  hold  one." 

While  thus  conversed  the  Prince  and  the  Archbishop,  the 
Earl  of  Warwick,  musing  and  alone,  slowly  paced  the  lofty 
terrace  that  crested  the  battlements  of  his  outer  fortifications. 

In  vain  had  that  restless  and  powerful  spirit  sought  content 
in  retirement.  Trained  from  his  chidhood  to  active  life — to 
move  mankind  to  and  fro  at  his  beck — this  single  and  sudden 
interval  of  repose  in  the  prime  of  his  existence,  at  the  height 
of  his  fame,  served  but  to  swell  the  turbulent  and  dangerous 
passions  to  which  all  vent  was  forbidden. 

The  statesman  of  modern  days  has  at  least  food  for  intellect, 
in  letters,  when  deprived  of  action  ;  but  with  all  his  talents,  and 
thoroughly  cultivated  as  his  mind  was  in  camp,  the  council, 
and  the  state,  the  great  Earl  cared  for  nothing  in  book-lore, 
except  some  rude  ballad  that  told  of  Charlemagne  or  Rollo. 
The  sports  that  had  pleased  the  leisure  of  his  earlier  youth 
were  tedious  and  flat  to  one  snatched  from  so  mighty  a  career. 
His  hound  lay  idle  at  his  feet,  his  falcon  took  holiday  on  the 
perch,  his  jester  was  banished  to  the  page's  table.  Behold  the 
repose  of  this  great  unlettered  spirit !  But  while  his  mind  was 
thus  debarred  from  its  native  sphere,  all  tended  to  pamper 
Lord  Warwick's  infirmity  of  pride.  The  ungrateful  Edward 


246  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

might  forget  him ;  but  the  King  seemed  to  stand  alone  in  that 
oblivion.  The  mightiest  peers,  the  most  renowned  knights 
gathered  to  his  hall.  Middleham,  not  Windsor,  nor  Shene, 
nor  Westminster,  nor  the  Tower,  seemed  the  COURT  OF  ENG- 
LAND. As  the  Last  of  the  Barons  paced  his  terrace,  far  as 
his  eye  could  reach  his  broad  domains  extended,  studded  with 
villages,  and  towns,  and  castles,  swarming  with  his  retainers. 
The  whole  country  seemed  in  mourning  for  his  absence.  The 
name  of  Warwick  was  in  all  men's  mouths,  and  not  a  group 
gathered  in  market-place  or  hostel,  but  what  the  minstrel  who 
had  some  ballad  in  praise  of  the  stout  Earl  found  a  rapt  and 
thrilling  audience. 

"And  is  the  river  of  my  life,"  muttered  Warwick,  "shrunk 
into  this  stagnant  pool!  Happy  the  man  who  hath  never 
known  what  it  is  to  taste  of  Fame — to  have  it  is  a  purgatory, 
to  want  it  is  a  hell!" 

Wrapped  in  this  gloomy  self-commune,  he  heard  not  the 
light  step  that  sought  his  side,  till  a  tender  arm  was  thrown 
round  him,  and  a  face,  in  which  a  sweet  temper  and  pure 
thought  had  preserved  to  matronly  beauty  all  the  bloom  of 
youth,  looked  up  smilingly  to  his  own. 

"My  Lord — my  Richard,"  said  the  Countess,  "why  didst 
thou  steal  so  churlishly  from  me?  Hath  there,  alas,  come  a 
time  when  thou  deemest  me  unworthy  to  share  thy  thoughts, 
or  soothe  thy  troubles?" 

"Fond  one,  no!"  said  Warwick,  drawing  the  form  still 
light,  though  rounded,  nearer  to  his  bosom.  "For  nineteen 
years  hast  thou  been  to  me  a  leal  and  loving  wife.  Thou  wert 
a  child  on  our  wedding-day,  m'amie,  and  I  a  beardless  youth ; 
yet  wise  enough  was  I  then  to  see,  at  the  first  glance  of  thy 
blue  eye,  that  there  was  more  treasure  in  thy  heart  than  in  all 
the  lordships  thy  hand  bestowed." 

"My  Richard!"  murmured  the  Countess,  and  her  tears  of 
grateful  delight  fell  on  the  hand  she  kissed. 

"Yes,  let  us  recall  those  early  and  sweet  days, "  continued 
Warwick,  with  a  tenderness  of  voice  and  manner  that  strangers 
might  have  marvelled  at,  forgetting  how  tenderness  is  almost 
ever  a  part  of  such  peculiar  manliness  of  character — "yes,  sit 
we  here  under  this  spacious  elm,  and  think  that  our  youth  has 
come  back  to  us  once  more.  For  verily,  m'atnie,  nothing  in  life 
has  ever  been  so  fair  to  me,  as  those  days  when  we  stood  hand 
in  hand  on  its  threshold,  and  talked,  boy-bridegroom  and 
'  nild-bride  as  we  were,  of  the  morrow  that  lay  beyond." 

"Ah,  Richard,  even  in  those  days  thy  ambition  sometimes 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  247 

vexed  my  woman  vanity,  and  showed  me  that  I  could  never 
be  all  in  all  to  so  large  a  heart!" 

"Ambition!  No,  thou  mistakest — Montagu  is  ambitious,  I 
but  proud.  Montagu  ever  seeks  to  be  higher  than  he  is,  I  but 
assert  the  right  to  be  what  I  am  and  have  been ;  and  my  pride, 
sweet  wife,  is  a  part  of  my  love  for  thee.  It  is  thy  title,  Heir- 
ess of  Warwick,  and  not  my  father's,  that  I  bear;  thy  badge, 
and  not  the  Nevile's,  which  I  have  made  the  symbol  of  my 
power.  Shame,  indeed,  on  my  knighthood,  if  the  fairest  dame 
in  England  could  not  justify  my  pride!  Ah,  belle  amie,  why 
have  we  not  a  son?" 

"Peradventure,  fair  lord,"  said  the  Countess,  with  an  arch, 
yet  half-melancholy  smile,  "because  that  pride  or  ambition, 
name  it  as  thou  wilt,  which  thou  excusest  so  gallantly,  would 
become  too  insatiate  and  limitless,  if  thou  sawest  a  male  heir 
to  thy  greatness ;  and  God,  perhaps,  warns  thee  that,  spread 
and  increase  as  thou  wilt,  yea,  until  half  our  native  country 
becometh  as  the  manor  of  one  man,  all  must  pass  from  the 
Beauchamp  and  the  Nevile  into  new  houses;  thy  glory,  indeed, 
an  eternal  heirloom,  but  only  to  thy  land — thy  lordships  and 
thy  wealth  melting  into  the  dowry  of  a  daughter." 

"At  least,  no  king  hath  daughters  so  downed,"  answered 
Warwick;  "and  though  I  disdain  for  myself  the  hard  vas- 
salage of  a  throne,  yet,  if  the  channel  of  our  blood  must 
pass  into  other  streams — into  nothing  meaner  than  the  veins 
of  royalty  should  it  merge."  He  paused  a  moment,  and 
added,  with  a  sigh:  "Would  that  Clarence  were  more  worthy 
Isabel ! " 

"Nay,"  said  the  Countess  gently,  "he  loveth  her  as  she 
merits.  He  is  comely,  brave,  gracious,  and  learned." 

"A  pest  upon  that  learning — it  sicklies  and  womanizes  men's 
minds!"  exclaimed  Warwick  bluntly.  "Perhaps  it  is  his 
learning  that  I  am  to  thank  for  George  of  Clarence's  fears,  and 
doubts,  and  calculations,  and  scruples.  His  brother  forbids 
his  marriage  with  any  English  donzell,  for  Edward  dares  not 
specialize  what  alone  he  dreads.  His  letters  burn  with  love, 
and  his  actions  freeze  with  doubts.  It  was  not  thus  I  loved 
thee,  sweetheart.  By  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar,  had  Henry 
V.,  or  the  Lion  Richard  started  from  the  tomb  to  forbid  me 
thy  hand,  it  would  but  have  made  me  a  hotter  lover!  How- 
beit  Clarence  shall  decide  ere  the  moon  wanes,  and  but  for 
Isabel's  tears  and  thy  entreaties,  my  father's  grandchild  should 
not  have  waited  thus  long  the  coming  of  so  hesitating  a  wooer. 
But  lo,  our  darlings!  Anne  hath  thine  eyes,  m'amie;  and  she 


24$  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

groweth  more  into  my  heart  every  day,  since  daily  she  more 
favors  thee." 

While  he  thus  spoke,  the  fair  sisters  came  lightly  and  gayly 
up  the  terrace:  the  arm  of  the  statelier  Isabel  was  twined  round 
Anne's  slender  waist ;  and  as  they  came  forward  in  that  gentle 
link,  with  their  lithesome  and  bounding  step,  a  happier  blend- 
ing of  contrasted  beauty  was  never  seen.  The  months  that  had 
passed  since  the  sisters  were  presented  first  to  the  reader  had 
little  changed  the  superb  and  radiant  loveliness  of  Isabel,  but 
had  added  surprisingly  to  the  attractions  of  Anne.  Her  form 
was  more  rounded,  her  bloom  more  ripened,  and  though 
something  of  timidity  and  bashfulness  still  lingered  about  the 
grace  of  her  movements  and  the  glance  of  her  dove-like  eye, 
the  more  earnest  thoughts  of  the  awakening  woman  gave  sweet 
intelligence  to  her  countenance,  and  that  divinest  of  all  attrac- 
tions, the  touching  and  conscious  modesty  to  the  shy,  but 
tender  smile,  and  the  blush  that  so  came  and  went,  so  went 
and  came,  that  it  stirred  the  heart  with  a  sort  of  delighted 
pity  for  one  so  evidently  susceptible  to  every  emotion  of 
pleasure  and  of  pain.  Life  seemed  too  rough  a  thing  for 
so  soft  a  nature,  and,  gazing  on  her,  one  sighed  to  guess  her 
future. 

"And  what  brings  ye  hither,  young  truants?"  said  the  Earl, 
as  Anne,  leaving  her  sister,  clung  lovingly  to  his  side  (for  it 
was  ever  her  habit  to  cling  to  some  one)  while  Isabel  kissed 
her  mother's  hand,  and  then  stood  before  her  parents,  coloring 
deeply,  and  with  downcast  eyes.  "What  brings  ye  hither, 
whom  I  left  so  lately  deep  engaged  in  the  loom,  upon  the  hel- 
met of  Goliath,  with  my  burgonot  before  you  as  a  sample? 
Wife,  you  are  to  blame — our  room  of  state  will  be  arrasless  for 
the  next  three  generations,  if  these  rosy  fingers  are  suffered 
thus  to  play  the  idlers." 

"My  father,"  whispered  Anne,  "guests  are  on  their  way 
hither — a  noble  cavalcade ;  you  note  them  not  from  this  part 
of  the  battlements,  but  from  our  turret  it  was  fair  to  see  how 
their  plumes  and  banners  shone  in  the  setting  sun." 

"Guests!"  echoed  the  Earl;  "well,  is  that  so  rare  an 
honor,  that  your  hearts  should  beat  like  village  girls  at  a  holi- 
day? Ah,  Isabel!  look  at  her  blushes.  Is  it  George  of  Clar- 
ence at  last?  Is  it?" 

"We  see  the  Duke  of  Gloucester's  cognizance,"  whispered 
Anne,  "and  our  own  Nevile  Bull.  Perchance  our  cousin 
George,  also,  may — " 

Here  she  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  the  warder's  horn, 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  249 

followed  a  moment  after  by  the  roar  of  one  of  the  bombards  on 
the  keep. 

"At  least,"  said  Warwick,  his  face  lighting  up,  "that  sig- 
nal announces  the  coming  of  king's  blood.  We  must  honor 
it — for  it  is  our  own.  We  will  go  forth  and  meet  our  guests — • 
your  hand,  Countess." 

And  gravely  and  silently,  and  in  deep,  but  no  longer  gloomy, 
thought,  Warwick  descended  from  the  terrace,  followed  by  the 
fair  sisters ;  and  who  that  could  have  looked  upon  that  princely 
pair,  and  those  lovely  and  radiant  children  could  have  fore- 
seen that,  in  that  hour,  Fate,  in  tempting  the  Earl  once  more  to 
action,  was  busy  on  their  doom! 


CHAPTER  II. 

COUNCILS   AND   MUSINGS. 

THE  lamp  shone  through  the  lattice  of  Warwick's  chamber 
at  the  unwonted  hour  of  midnight,  and  the  Earl  was  still  in 
deep  commune  with  his  guests.  The  Archbishop,  whom  Ed- 
ward, alarmed  by  the  state  of  the  country,  and  the  disaffection 
of  his  barons,  had  reluctantly  commissioned  to  mediate  with 
Warwick,  was,  as  we  have  before  said,  one  of  those  men  pecu- 
liar to  the  early  Church.  There  was  nothing  more  in  the  title 
of  Archbishop  of  York  than  in  that  of  the  Bishop  of  Osnaburg 
(borne  by  the  royal  son  of  George  III.*),  to  prevent  him  who 
enjoyed  it  from  leading  armies,  guiding  states,  or  indulging 
pleasure.  But  beneath  the  coxcombry  of  George  Nevile, 
which  was  what  he  shared  most  in  common  with  the  courtiers 
of  the  laity,  there  lurked  a  true  ecclesiastic's  mind.  He  would 
have  made,  in  later  times,  an  admirable  Jesuit,  and  no  doubt, 
in  his  own  time,  a  very  brilliant  pope.  His  objects  in  his 
present  mission  were  clear  and  perspicuous ;  any  breach  be- 
tween Warwick  and  the  King  must  necessarily  weaken  his  own 
position,  and  the  power  of  his  house  was  essential  to  all  his 
views.  The  object  of  Gloucester  in  his  intercession  was  less 
denned,  but  not  less  personal:  in  smoothing  the  way  to  his 
brother's  marriage  with  Isabel,  he  removed  all  apparent  obsta- 
cles to  his  own  with  Anne.  And  it  is  probable  that  Richard, 
who,  whatever  his  crimes,  was  far  from  inaccessible  to  affec- 
tion, might  have  really  loved  his  early  playmate,  even  while  his 
ambition  calculated  the  wealth  of  the  baronies  that  would  swell 

*  The  late  Duke  of  York. 


250  '     1-AST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

the  dower  of  the  heiress  and  gild  the  barren  coronet  of  his 
duchy.* 

"God's  truth!"  said  Warwick,  as  he  lifted  his  eyes  from 
the  scroll  in  the  King's  writing,  "ye  know  well,  princely  cous- 
in, and  thou,  my  brother,  ye  know  well  how  dearly  I  have 
loved  King  Edward ;  and  the  mother's  milk  overflows  my 
heart  when  I  read  these  gentle  and  tender  words,  which  he 
deigns  to  bestow  upon  his  servant.  My  blood  is  hasty  and 
over-hot,  but  a  kind  thought  from  those  I  love  puts  out  much 
fire.  Sith  he  thus  beseeches  me  to  return  to  his  councils,  I 
will  not  be  sullen  enough  to  hold  back;  but,  oh,  Prince  Rich- 
ard, is  it  indeed  a  matter  past  all  consideration  that  your  sis- 
ter, the  Lady  Margaret,  must  wed  with  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy?" 

"Warwick,"  replied  the  Prince,  "thou  mayst  know  that  I 
never  looked  with  favor  on  that  alliance ;  that  when  Clarence 
bore  the  Bastard's  helmet,  I  withheld  my  countenance  from 
the  Bastard's  presence.  I  incurred  Edward's  anger  by  refus- 
ing to  attend  his  court  while  the  Count  de  la  Roche  was  his 
guest.  And  therefore  you  may  trust  me  when  I  say  now  that 
Edward,  after  promises,  however  rash,  most  solemn  and  bind- 
ing, is  dishonored  forever  if  he  break  off  the  contract.  New  cir- 
cumstances, too,  have  arisen,  to  make  what  were  dishonor,  dan- 
ger also.  By  the  death  of  his  father,  Charolois  has  succeeded  to 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy's  diadem.  Thou  knowest  his  warlike 
temper,  and  though  in  a  contest  popular  in  England  we  need 
fear  no  foe,  yet  thou  knowest  that  no  subsidies  could  be  raised 
for  strife  with  our  most  profitable  commercial  ally.  Where- 
fore, we  earnestly  implore  thee  magnanimously  to  forgive  the 
past,  accept  Edward's  assurance  of  repentance,  and  be  thy 
thought — as  it  has  been  ever — the  weal  of  our  common 
country." 

"I  may  add,  also,"  said  the  archbishop,  observing  how 
much  Warwick  was  touched  and  softened,  "that  in  returning 
to  the  helm  of  state,  our  gracious  King  permits  me  to  say  that, 
save  only  in  the  alliance  with  Burgundy,  which  toucheth  his 
plighted  word,  you  have  full  liberty  to  name  conditions,  and 
to  ask  whatever  grace  or  power  a  monarch  can  bestow." 

"I  name  none  but  my  Prince's  confidence,"  said  Warwick 
generously,  "in  that,  all  else  is  given,  and  in  return  for  that,  I 
will  make  the  greatest  sacrifice  that  my  nature  knoweth,  or  can 
conceive — I  will  mortify  my  familiar  demon — I  will  subdue  my 

*  Majetus,  the  Flemish  Chronicler,  quoted  by  Bucke  (Life  of  Richard  III.),  mentions 
the  early  attachment  of  Richard  to  Anne.  They  were  much  together,  as  children,  at  Mid* 
dlcham. 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  2$! 

PRIDE.  If  Edward  can  convince  me  that  it  is  for  the  good  of 
England  that  his  sister  should  wed  with  mine  ancient  and  bit- 
ter foe,  I  will  myself  do  honor  to  his  choice.  But  of  this  here- 
after. Enough,  now,  that  I  forget  past  wrongs  in  present  favor; 
and  that,  for  peace  or  war,  I  return  to  the  side  of  that  man 
whom  I  loved  as  my  son,  before  I  served  him  as  my  king." 

Neither  Richard  nor  the  Archbishop  was  prepared  for  a  con- 
ciliation so  facile,  for  neither  quite  understood  that  peculiar 
magnanimity  which  often  belongs  to  a  vehement  and  hasty 
temper,  and  which  is  as  eager  to  forgive  as  prompt  to  take 
offence;  which,  even  in  extremes,  is  not  contented  with  any- 
thing short  of  fiery  aggression,  or  trustful  generosity;  and 
where  it  once  passes  over  an  offence,  seeks  to  oblige  the  offender. 
So,  when,  after  some  further  conversation  on  the  state  of  the 
country,  the  Earl  lighted  Gloucester  to  his  chamber,  the  young 
Prince  said  to  himself,  musingly : 

"Does  ambition  besot  and  blind  men?  Or  can  Warwick 
think  that  Edward  can  ever  view  him  but  as  one  to  be 
destroyed  when  the  hour  is  ripe?" 

Catesby,  who  was  the  Duke's  chamberlain,  was  in  atten- 
dance, as  the  Prince  unrobed.  "A  noble  castle  this,"  said  the 
Duke,  "and  one  in  the  midst  of  a  warlike  population — our  own 
countrymen  of  York." 

"It  would  be  no  mean  addition  to  the  dowry  of  the  Lady 
Isabel,"  said  Catesby,  with  his  bland,  false  smile. 

"Methinks  rather  that  the  lordships  of  Salisbury  (and  this 
is  the  chief)  pass  to  the  Lady  Anne,"  said  Richard  musingly. 
"No,  Edward  were  imprudent  to  suffer  this  stronghold  to  fall 
to  the  next  heir  to  his  throne.  Marked  you  the  Lady  Anne — 
her  beauty  is  most  excellent." 

"Truly,  your  Highness,"  answered  Catesby  unsuspiciously, 
"the  Lady  Isabel  seems  to  me  the  taller  and  the  statelier." 

'  'When  man's  merit  and  woman's  beauty  are  measured  by 
the  ell,  Catesby,  Anne  will  certainly  be  less  fair  than  Isabel,  and 
Richard  a  dolt  compared  to  Clarence.  Open  the  casement — 
my  dressing  robe — good-night  to  you!" 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    SISTERS. 

THE  next  morning,  at  an  hour  when  modern  beauty  falls  into 
its  first  sickly  sleep,  Isabel  and  Anne  conversed  on  the  same 
terrace,  and  near  the  same  spot  which  had  witnessed  their 


«52  THE    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

father's  meditations  the  day  before.  They  were  seated  on  a 
rude  bench  in  an  angle  of  the  wall,  flanked  by  a  low,  heavy 
bastion.  And  from  the  parapet  their  gaze  might  have  wan- 
dered over  a  goodly  sight,  for  on  a  broad  space,  covered  with 
sand  and  sawdust,  within  the  vast  limits  of  the  castle  range, 
the  numerous  knights,  and  youths  who  sought  apprenticeship  in 
arms  and  gallantry  under  the  Earl,  were  engaged  in  those  mar- 
tial sports  which,  falling  elsewhere  into  disuse,  the  Last  of  the 
Barons  kinglily  maintained.  There,  boys  of  fourteen,  on  their 
small  horses,  ran  against  each  other  with  blunted  lances. 
There,  those  of  more  advanced  adolescence,  each  following 
the  other  in  a  circle,  rode  at  the  ring;  sometimes  (at  the  word 
of  command  from  an  old  knight  who  had  fought  at  Agincourt, 
and  was  the  preceptor  in  these  valiant  studies)  leaping  from 
their  horses  at  full  speed,  and  again  vaulting  into  the  saddle. 
A  few  grim  old  warriors  sate  by  to  censure  or  applaud.  Most 
skilled  among  the  younger  was  the  son  of  the  Lord  Montagu, 
among  the  maturer  the  name  of  Marmaduke  Nevile  was  the 
most  often  shouted.  If  the  eye  turned  to  the  left,  through  the 
Barbican  might  be  seen  flocks  of  beeves  entering  to  supply  the 
mighty  larder ;  and  at  a  smaller  postern,  a  dark  crowd  of  men- 
dicant friars  and  the  more  destitute  poor  waited  for  their  daily 
crumbs  from  the  rich  man's  table.  What  need  of  a  poor  law 
then  ?  the  baron  and  the  abbot  made  the  parish !  But  not  on 
these  evidences  of  wealth  and  state  turned  the  eyes — so  famil- 
iar to  them,  that  they  woke  no  vanity,  and  roused  no  pride. 

With  downcast  looks  and  a  pouting  lip,  Isabel  listened  to 
the  silver  voice  of  Anne. 

"Dear  sister,  be  just  to  Clarence.  He  cannot  openly  defy 
his  king  and  brother.  Believe  that  he  would  have  accompa- 
nied our  uncle  and  cousin  had  he  not  deemed  that  their  media- 
tion would  be  more  welcome,  at  least  to  King  Edward,  with- 
out his  presence." 

"But  not  a  letter — not  a  line!" 

"Yet  when  I  think  of  it,  Isabel,  are  we  sure  that  he  even 
knew  of  the  visit  of  the  Archbishop  and  his  brother?" 

"How  could  he  fail  to  know?" 

"The  Duke  of  Gloucester,  last  evening,  told  me  that  the 
King  had  sent  him  southward." 

"Was  it  about  Clarence  that  the  Duke  whispered  to  thee  so 
softly  by  the  oriel  window?" 

"Surely,  yes!"  said  Anne  simply.  "Was  not  Richard  as  a 
brother  to  us  when  we  played  as  children  on  yon  green- 
sward?" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  255 

"Never  as  a  brother  to  me — never  was  Richard  of  Glouces- 
ter one  whom  I  could  think  of  without  fear,  and  even  loathing," 
answered  Isabel  quickly. 

It  was  at  this  turn  in  the  conversation  that  the  noiseless  step 
of  Richard  himself  neared  the  spot,  and  hearing  his  own  name 
thus  discourteously  treated,  he  paused,  screened  from  their  eyes 
by  the  bastion,  in  the  angle. 

"Nay,  nay,  sister,"  said  Anne;  "what  is  there  in  Richard 
that  misbeseems  his  princely  birth?" 

"I  know  not,  but  there  is  no  youth  in  his  eye  and  in  his 
heart.  Even  as  a  child  he  had  the  hard  will  and  the  cold  craft 
of  gray  hairs.  Pray  St.  Mary  you  give  me  not  Gloucester  for 
a  brother! " 

Anne  sighed  and  smiled;  "Ah  no,"  she  said,  after  a  short 
pause — "when  thou  art  Princess  of  Clarence,  may  I — " 

"May  thou,  what?" 

"Pray  for  thee  and  thine  in  the  house  of  God!  Ah!  thou 
knowest  not,  sweet  Isabel,  how  often  at  morn  and  eve  mine 
eyes  and  heart  turn  to  the  spires  of  yonder  convent!"  She 
rose  as  she  said  this,  her  lip  quivered,  and  she  moved  on  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  that  in  which  Richard  stood,  still  unseen, 
and  no  longer  within  his  hearing.  Isabel  rose  also,  and  hast- 
ening after  her,  threw  her  arms  round  Anne's  neck,  and  kissed 
away  the  tears  that  stood  in  those  meek  eyes. 

"My  sister — my  Anne!  Ah!  trust  in  me,  thou  hast  some 
secret,  I  know  it  well — I  have  long  seen  it.  Is  it  possible  that 
thou  canst  have  placed  thy  heart,  thy  pure  love — thou  blush- 
est !  Ah !  Anne,  Anne !  thou  canst  not  have  loved  beneath 
thee." 

"Nay,"  said  Anne,  with  a  spark  of  her  ancestral  fire  lighting 
her  meek  eyes  through  its  tears,  "not  beneath  me,  but  above. 
What  do  I  say !  Isabel,  ask  me  no  more.  Enough  mat  it  is  a 
folly — a  dream — and  that  I  could  smile  with  pity  at  myself,  to 
think  from  what  light  causes  love  and  grief  can  spring." 

"Above  thee!"  repeated  Isabel,  in  amaze;  "And  who  in 
England  is  above  the  daughter  of  Earl  Warwick?  Not  Rich- 
ard of  Gloucester?  If  so,  pardon  my  foolish  tongue." 

"No,  not  Richard — though  I  feel  kindly  towards  him,  and 
his  sweet  voice  soothes  me  when  I  listen — not  Richard.  Ask 
no  more." 

"Oh,  Anne — speak — speak! — we  are  not  both  so  wretched. 
Thou  lovest  not  Clarence?  It  is — it  must  be!" 

"Canst  thou  think  me  so  false  and  treacherous — a  heart 
pledged  to  thee?  Clarence!  Oh  no!" 


^54  Tllli  LAST  OF  THE  UARONS. 

"But  who  then — who  then?"  said  Isabel,  still  suspiciously; 
"Nay,  if  thou  wilt  not  speak,  blame  thyself  if  I  must  still 
wrong  thee." 

Thus  appealed  to,  and  wounded  to  the  quick  by  Isabel's 
tone  and  eye,  Anne  at  last,  with  a  strong  effort,  suppressed 
her  tears,  and,  taking  her  sister's  hand,  said  in  a  voice  of 
touching  solemnity:  "Promise,  then,  that  the  secret  shall  be 
ever  holy ;  and,  since  I  know  that  it  will  move  thine  anger — 
perhaps  thy  scorn — strive  to  forget  what  I  will  confess  to  thee." 

Isabel  for  answer  pressed  her  lips  on  the  hand  she  held ;  and 
the  sisters,  turning  under  the  shadow  of  a  long  row  of  vener- 
able oaks,  placed  themselves  on  a  little  mound,  fragrant  with 
the  violets  of  spring.  A  different  part  of  the  landscape  beyond 
was  now  brought  in  view:  calmly  slept  in  the  valley  the  roofs 
of  the  subject  town  of  Middleham ;  calmly  flowed  through  the 
pastures  the  noiseless  waves  of  Ure.  Leaning  on  Isabel's 
bosom,  Anne  thus  spake:  "Call  to  mind,  sweet  sister,  that  short 
breathing-time  in  the  horrors  of  the  Civil  War,  when  a  brief 
peace  was  made  between  our  father  and  Queen  Margaret.  We 
were  left  in  the  palace — mere  children  that  we  were — to  play 
with  the  young  Prince,  and  the  children  in  Margaret's  train." 

"I  remember." 

"And  I  was  unwell,  and  timid,  and  kept  aloof  from  the 
sports  with  a  girl  of  my  own  years,  whom  I  think — see  how 
faithful  my  memory! — they  called  Sibyll;  and  Prince  Edward, 
Henry's  son,  stealing  from  the  rest,  sought  me  out ;  and  we 
sate  together,  or  walked  together  alone,  apart  from  all,  that  day 
and  the  few  days  we  were  his  mother's  guests.  Oh!  if  you 
could  have  seen  him  and  heard  him  then — so  beautiful,  so  gen- 
tle, so  wise  beyond  his  years,  and  yet  so  sweetly  sad;  and  when 
we  parted,  he  bade  me  ever  love  him,  and  placed  his  ring  on 
my  finger,  and  wept — as  we  kissed  each  other,  as  children  will." 

"Children!  Ye  were  infants !"  exclaimed  Isabel,  whose  won- 
der seemed  increased  by  this  simple  tale. 

"Infant  though  I  was,  I  felt  as  if  my  heart  would  break 
when  I  left  him;  and  then  the  wars  ensued;  and  do  you  not 
remember  how  ill  I  was,  and  like  to  die,  when  our  house  tri- 
umphed, and  the  prince  and  heir  of  Lancaster  was  driven  into 
friendless  exile?  From  that  hour  my  fate  was  fixed.  Smile  if 
you  please  at  such  infant  folly,  but  children  often  feel  more 
deeply  than  later  years  can  weet  of." 

"My  sister,  this  is  indeed  a  wilful  invention  of  sorrow  for 
thine  own  scourge.  Why,  ere  this,  believe  me,  the  Boy-Prince 
bath  forgotten  thy  very  name," 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BAROXS.  255 

'Not  so,  Isabel,"  said  Anne,  coloring,  and  quickly,  "and 
perchance,  did  all  rest  here,  I  might  have  outgrown  my 
weakness.  But  last  year,  when  we  were  at  Rouen  with  my 
father — ' ' 

"Well?" 

"One  evening,  on  entering  my  chamber,  I  found  a  packet — • 
low  left  I  know  not,  but  the  French  King  and  his  suite,  thou 
rememberest,  made  our  house  almost  their  home — and  in  this 
Dacket  was  a  picture,  and  on  its  back  these  words :  'Forget  not 
'he  exile,  who  remembers  thee  '  /' ' 

"And  that  picture  was  Prince  Edward's?" 

Anne  blushed,  and  her  bosom  heaved  beneath  the  slender 
md  high-laced  gorget.  After  a  pause,  looking  round  her,  she 
Irew  forth  a  small  miniature,  which  lay  on  the  heart  that  beat 
:hus  sadly,  and  placed  it  in  her  sister's  hands. 

"You  see  I  deceive  you  not,  Isabel.  And  is  not  this  a  fair 
excuse  for — " 

She  stopped  short,  her  modest  nature  shrinking  from  com- 
nent  upon  the  mere  beauty  that  might  have  won  the  heart. 

And  fair  indeed  was  the  face  upon  which  Isabel  gazed  admir- 
ngly,  in  spite  of  the  stiff  and  rude  art  of  the  limner;  full  of  the 
ire  and  energy  which  characterized  the  countenance  of  the 
nother,  but  with  a  tinge  of  the  same  profound  and  inexpres- 
sible melancholy  that  gave  its  charm  to  the  pensive  features  of 
Henry  VI. — a  face,  indeed,  to  fascinate  a  young  eye,  even  if 
lot  associated  with  such  remembrances  of  romance  and  pity. 

Without  saying  a  word,  Isabel  gave  back  the  picture,  but 
;he  pressed  the  hand  that  took  it,  and  Anne  was  contented  to 
nterpret  the  silence  into  sympathy. 

"And  now  you  know  why  I  have  so  often  incurred  you! 
inger — by  compassion  for  the  adherents  of  Lancaster ;  and  foi 
:his,  also,  Richard  of  Gloucester  hath  been  endeared  to  me; 
:or  fierce  and  stern  as  he  may  be  called,  he  hath  ever  been 
jentle  in  his  mediation  for  that  unhappy  House." 

"Because  it  is  his  policy  to  be  well  with  all  parties.  My 
Door  Anne,  I  cannot  bid  you  hope ;  and  yet,  should  I  ever  wed 
vith  Clarence,  it  may  be  possible — that — that — but  you  in  turn 
vill  chide  me  for  ambition." 

"How.-'" 

"Clarence  is  heir  to  the  throne  of  England,  for  King  Edward 
las  no  male  children ;  and  the  hour  may  arrive  when  the  son 
jf  Henry  of  Windsor  may  return  to  his  native  land,  not  as 
sovereign,  but  as  Duke  of  Lancaster,  and  thy  hand  may  regon.* 
;ile  him  to  the  loss  of  a  crown." 


256  THE  LAST  OK  THE  BARONS. 

"Would  love  reconcile  thee  to  such  a  loss,  proud  Isabel?" 
said  Anne,  shaking  her  head  and  smiling  mournfully. 

"No,"  answered  Isabel  emphatically. 

"And  are  men  less  haught  than  we?"  said  Anne.  "Ah!  I 
know  not  if  I  could  love  him  so  well  could  he  resign  his  rights, 
or  even  could  he  regain  them.  It  is  his  position  that  gives  him 
a  holiness  in  my  eyes.  And  this  love,  that  must  be  hopeless, 
is  half-pity  and  half- respect." 

At  this  moment  a  loud  shout  arose  from  the  youths  in  the 
yard,  or  sporting  ground,  below,  and  the  sisters,  startled,  and 
looking  up,  saw  that  the  sound  was  occasioned  by  the  sight  of 
the  young  Duke  of  Gloucester,  who  was  standing  on  the  para- 
pet near  the  bench  the  demoiselles  had  quitted,  and  who  ac- 
knowledged the  greeting  by  a  wave  of  his  plumed  cap  and  a 
lowly  bend  of  his  head ;  at  the  same  time  the  figures  of  War- 
wick and  the  Archbishop,  seemingly  in  earnest  conversation, 
appeared  at  the  end  of  the  terrace.  The  sisters  rose  hastily, 
and  would  have  stolen  away,  but  the  Archbishop  caught  a 
glimpse  of  their  robes,  and  called  aloud  to  them.  The  reverent 
obedience,  at  that  day,  of  youth  to  relations,  left  the  sisters  no 
option  but  to  advance  towards  their  uncle,  which  they  did  with 
demure  reluctance. 

"Fair  brother,"  said  the  Archbishop,  "I  would  that  Glou- 
cester were  to  have  my  stately  niece  instead  of  the  gaudy  Clar- 
ence." 

"Wherefore?" 

"Because  he  can  protect  those  he  loves,  and  Clarence  will 
ever  need  a  protector." 

"I  like  George  not  the  less  for  that,"  said  Warwick,  "for  I 
would  not  have  my  son-in-law  my  master." 

"Master!"  echoed  the  Archbishop,  laughing;  "The  sol- 
dan  of  Babylon  himself,  were  he  your  son  in-law,  would  find 
Lord  Warwick  a  tolerably  stubborn  servant!" 

"And  yet,"  said  Warwick,  also  laughing,  but  with  a  franker 
tone,  "beshrew  me,  but  much  as  I  approve  young  Gloucester, 
and  deem  him  the  hope  of  the  House  of  York,  I  never  feel  sure, 
when  we  are  of  the  same  mind,  whether  I  agree  with  him,  or 
whether  he  leadeth  me.  Ah,  George !  Isabel  should  have  wed- 
ded the  King,  and  then  Edward  and  I  would  have  had  a  sweet 
mediator  in  all  our  quarrels.  But  not  so  hath  it  been  decreed." 
There  was  a  pause. 

"Note  how  Gloucester  steals  to  the  side  of  Anne.  Thou 
mayest  have  him  for  a  son-in-law,  though  no  rival  to  Clarence. 
Montagu  hath  hinted  that  the  Duke  so  aspires." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  257 

"He  has  his  father's  face — well,"  said  the  Earl  softly. 
"  But  yet, "  he  added,  in  an  altered  and  reflective  tone,  "the 
boy  is  to  me  a  riddle.  That  he  will  be  bold  in  battle  and  wise 
in  council  I  foresee;  but  would  he  had  more  of  a  young  man's 
honest  follies!  There  is  a  medium  between  Edward's  wanton- 
ness and  Richard's  sanctimony;  and  he  who  in  the  heyday  of 
youth's  blood  scowls  alike  upon  sparkling  wine  and  smiling 
woman,  may  hide  in  his  heart  darker  and  more  sinful  fancies. 
But  fie  on  me.  I  will  not  wrongfully  mistrust  his  father's  son. 
Thou  spokest  of  Montagu ;  he  seems  to  have  been  mighty  cold 
to  his  brother's  wrongs — ever  at  the  court — ever  sleek  with 
Villein  and  Woodville. " 

"But  the  better  to  watch  thy  interests — I  so  counselled  him." 

'  'A  priest's  counsel !  Hate  frankly  or  love  freely  is  a  knight's 
and  soldier's  motto.  A  murrain  on  all  double-dealing!" 

The  Archbishop  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  applied  to  his 
nostril  a  small  pouncet-box  of  dainty  essences. 

"Come  hither,  my  haughty  Isabel,"  said  the  prelate,  as  the 
demoiselles  now  drew  near.  He  placed  his  niece's  arm  within 
his  own,  and  took  her  aside  to  talk  of  Clarence.  Richard  re- 
mained with  Anne,  and  the  young  cousins  were  joined  by  War- 
wick. The  Earl  noted  in  silence  the  soft  address  of  the  elo- 
quent Prince,  and  his  evident  desire  to  please  Anne.  And 
strange  as  it  may  seem,  although  he  had  hitherto  regarded 
Richard  with  admiration  and  affection,  and  although  his  pride 
ror  both  daughters  coveted  alliances  not  less  than  royal,  yet,  in 
contemplating  Gloucester  for  the  first  time  as  a  probable  suitor 
to  his  daughter  (and  his  favorite  daughter),  the  anxiety  of  a 
t'ather  sharpened  his  penetration,  and  placed  the  character  of 
Richard  before  him  in  a  different  point  from  that  in  which  he 
had  hitherto  looked  only  on  the  fearless  heart  and  accomplished 
wit  of  his  royal  godson. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  DESTRIER. 

IT  was  three  days  afterwards  that  the  Earl,  as  according  to 
custom  Anne  knelt  to  him  for  his  morning  blessing  in  the  ora- 
tory, where  the  Christian  baron  at  matins  and  vespers  offered 
up  his  simple  worship,  drew  her  forth  into  the  air,  and  said 
abruptly: 

"Wouldst  thou  be  happy  if  Richard  of  Gloucester  were  thy 
betrothed?" 


25**  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

Anne  started,  and  with  more  vivacity  than  usually  belonged 
to  her,  exclaimed:  "Oh,  no,  my  father!" 

"This  is  no  maiden's  silly  coyness,  Anne?  It  is  a  plain  yea 
or  nay  that  I  ask  from  thee!" 

"Nay,  then,"  answered  Anne,  encouraged  by  her  father's 
tone — "nay,  if  it  so  please  you." 

"It  doth  please  me,"  said  the  Earl  shortly;  and  after  a 
pause,  .he  added:  "Yes,  I  am  well  pleased.  Richard  gives 
promise  of  an  illustrious  manhood;  but  Anne,  thou  growest  so 
like  thy  mother,  that,  whenever  my  pride  seeks  to  see  thee 
great,  my  heart  steps  in,  and  only  prays  that  it  may  see  thee 
happy! — so  much  so,  that  I  would  not  have  given  thee  to  Clar- 
ence, whom  it  likes  me  well  to  view  as  Isabel's  betrothed,  for, 
to  her,  greatness  and  bliss  are  one ;  and  she  is  of  firm  nature, 
andean  rule  in  her  own  house;  but  thou — where  out  of  ro- 
maunt  can  I  find  a  lord  loving  enough  for  thee,  soft  child?" 

Inexpressibly  affected,  Anne  threw  herself  on  her  father's 
breast  and  wept.  He  caressed,. and  soothed  her  fondly:  and, 
before  her  emotion  was  well  over,  Gloucester  and  Isabel  joined 
them. 

"My  fair  cousin,"  said  the  Duke,  "hath  promised  to  show 
me  thy  renowned  steed,  Saladin;  and  since,  on  quitting  thy 
halls,  I  go  to  my  apprenticeship  in  war  on  the  turbulent  Scot- 
tish frontier,  I  would  fain  ask  thee  for 'a  destrier  of  the  same 
race  as  that  which  bears  the  thunderbolt  of  Warwick's  wrath 
through  the  storm  of  battle." 

"A  steed  of  the  race  of  Saladin,"  answered  the  Earl,  leading 
the  way  to  the  destrier's  stall,  apart  from  all  other  horses,  and 
rather  a  chamber  of  the  castle  than  a  stable,  "were  indeed  a 
boon  worthy  a  soldier's  gift  and  a  prince's  asking.  But,  alas! 
Saladin,  like  myself,  is  sonless — the  last  of  a  long  line." 

"His  father,  methinks,  fell  for  us  on  the  field  of  Touton. 
Was  it  not  so?  I  have  heard  Edward  say,  that  when  the 
archers  gave  way,  and  the  victory  more  than  wavered,  thou, 
dismounting,  didst  slay  thy  steed  with  thine  own  hand,  and 
kissing  the  cross  of  thy  sword,  swore,  on  that  spot,  to  stem  the 
rush  of  the  foe,  and  win  Edward's  crown  or  Warwick's  grave."* 

"It  was  so;  and  the  shout  of  my  merry  men,  when  they  saw 
me  amongst  their  ranks  on  foot — all  flight  forbid — was  Malech's 
death-dirge !  It  is  a  wondrous  race  that  of  Malech  and  his  son 

1  "  Every  Palm  Sunday,  the  day  on  which  the  Battle  of  Touton  was  fought,  a  rough 
figure,  called  the  Red  Horse,  on  the  side  of  a  hill  in  Warwickshire,  is  scoured  out.  This  is 
suggested  to  be  done  in  commemoration  of  the  horse  which  the  Earl  of  Warwick  slew  on 
that  day  determined  to  vanquish  or  die."— Roberts's  "York  and  Lancaster."  vol.  i,. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  259 

Saladin  (continued  the  Earl,  smiling).  When  my  ancestor, 
Aymerde  Nevile,  led  his  troops  to  the  Holy  Land,  under  Cceur 
de  Lion,  it  was  his  fate  to  capture  a  lady  beloved  by  the  mighty 
Saladin.  Need  I  say  that  Aymer,  under  a  flag  of  truce,  escorted 
her  ransomless,  her  veil  never  raised  from  her  face,  to  the  tent 
of  the  Saracen  King.  Saladin,  too  gracious  for  an  infidel,  made 
him  tarry  awhile,  an  honored  guest ;  and  Aymer's  chivalry  be- 
came sorely  tried,  for  the  lady  he  had  delivered  loved  and 
tempted  him ;  but  the  good  knight  prayed  and  fasted,  and  de- 
fied Satan  and  all  his  works..  The  lady  (so  runs  the  legend) 
grew  wroth  at  the  pious  crusader's  disdainful  coldness;  and 
when  Aymer  returned  to  his  comrades,  she  sent,  amidst  the 
gifts  of  the  Soldan,  two  coal-black  steeds,  male  and  mare,  over 
which  some  foul  and  weird  spells  had  been  duly  muttered. 
Their  beauty,  speed,  art,  and  fierceness  were  a  marvel.  And 
Aymer,  unsuspecting,  prized  the  boon,  and  selected  the  male 
destrier  for  his  war-horse.  Great  were  the  feats,  in  many  a 
field,  which  my  forefather  wrought,  bestriding  his  black  charger. 
But  one  fatal  day  on  which  The"  *dden  war-trump  made  him 
forget  his  morning  ave,  the  beast  had  power  over  the  Christian, 
and  bore  him,  against  bit  and  spur,  into  the  thickest  of  the  foe. 
He  did  all  a  knight  can  do  against  many  (pardon  his  descen- 
dant's vaunting — so^  runs  the  tale) — and  the  Christians  for 
a  while  beheld  him  solitary  in  the  melee,  mowing  down  moon 
and  turban.  Then  the  crowd  closed,  and  the  good  knight  was 
lost  to  sight.  "To  the  rescue!"  cried  bold  King  Richard,  and 
on  rushed  the  crusaders  to  Aymer's  help;  when  lo!  and  sud- 
denly, the  ranks  severed,  and  the  black  steed  emerged !  Aymer 
still  on  the  selle,  but  motionless,  and  his  helm  battered  and 
plumeless,  his  brand  broken,  his  arm  drooping.  On  came  man 
and  horse,  on — charging  on,  not  against  Infidel,  but  Christian. 
On  dashed  the  steed,  I  say,  with  fire  bursting  from  eyes  and 
nostrils,  and  the  pike  of  his  chaffron  bent  lance-like  against  the 
crusaders'  van.  The  foul  fiend  seemed  in  the  destrier's  rage  and 
puissance.  He  bore  right  against  Richard's  standard-bearer, 
and  down  went  the  lion  and  the  cross.  He  charged  the  King 
himself ;  and  Richard,  unwilling  to  harm  his  own  dear  soldier 
Aymer,  halted  wondering,  till  the  pike  of  the  destrier  pierced 
his  own  charger  through  the  barding,  and  the  King  lay  rolling 
in  the  dust.  A  panic  seized  the  cross-men :  they  fled — the 
Saracens  pursued — and  still  with  the  Saracens  came  the  black 
steed  and  the  powerless  rider.  At  last,  when  the  crusaders 
reached  the  camp,  and  the  flight  ceased,  there,  halted  also  Ay- 
mer. Not  a  man  dared  near  him.  He  spoke  not — none  spoke 


260  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

to  him — till  a  holy  priest  and  palmer  approached  and  sprinkled 
the  L'.OOI!  knight  and  the  black  barb  with  holy  water,  and  exor- 
cised both — the  spell  broke,  and  Aymer  dropped  to  the  earth. 
They  unbraced  his  helm — he  was  cold  and  stark.  The  fierce 
steed  had  but  borne  a  dead  man." 

"Holy  Paul!"  cried  Gloucester,  with  seeming  sanctimony, 
though  a  covert  sneer  played  round  the  firm  beauty  of  his  pale 
lips — "a  notable  tale,  and  one  that  proveth  much  of  Sacred 
Truth,  now  lightly  heeded.  But,  verily,  Lord  Earl,  I  should 
have  little -loved  a  steed  with  such  a  pedigree!" 

"Hear  the  rest, "  said  Isabel — "King  Richard  ordered  the 
destrier  to  be  slain  forthwith ;  but  the  holy  palmer  who  had 
exorcised  it  forbade  the  sacrifice.  'Mighty  shall  be  the  ser- 
vice,' said  the  reverend  man,  'which  the  posterity  of  this  steed 
shall  render  to  thy  royal  race,  and  great  glory  shall  they  give  to 
the  sons  of  Nevile.  Let  the  war-horse,  now  duly  exorcised 
from  infidel  spells,  live  long  to  bear  a  Christian  warrior!" 

"And  so,"  quoth  the  Earl,  taking  up  the  tale — "so  mare 
and  horse  were  brought  by  Aymer's  squires  to  his  English  hall; 
and  Aymer's  son,  Sir  Reginald,  bore  the  cross,  and  bestrode 
the  fatal  steed,  without  fear  and  without  scathe.  From  that 
hour  the  House  of  Nevile  rose  amain,  in  fame  and  in  puissance, 
and  the  legend  further  saith,  that  the  same  palmer  encountered 
Sir  Reginald  at  Joppa,  bade  him  treasure  that  race  of  war  steeds 
as  his  dearest  heritage,  for  with  that  race  his  own  should 
flourish  and  depart;  and  the  sole  one  of  the  infidel's  spells 
which  could  not  be  broken  was  that  which  united  the  gift — 
generation  after  generation,  for  weal  or  for  woe,  for  honor  or 
for  doom — to  the  fate  of  Aymer  and  his  house.  'And,'  added 
the  palmer,  'as  with  woman's  love  and  woman's  craft  was  woven 
the  indissoluble  charm,  so  shall  woman,  whether  in  craft  or  in 
love,  ever  shape  the  fortunes  of  thee  and  thine.'  " 

"As  yet,"  said  the  Prince,  "the  prophecy  is  fulfilled  in  a 
golden  sense,  for  nearly  all  thy  wide  baronies,  I  trow,  have  come 
to  thee  through  the  female  side.  A  woman's  hand  brought  to 
the  Nevile  this  castle  and  its  lands.*  From  a  woman  came 
the  heritage  of  Monthermer  and  Montagu,  and  Salisbury's  fa 
mous  earldom ;  and  the  dower  of  thy  peerless  Countess  was  the 
broad  domains  of  Beauchamp. " 

"And  a  woman's  craft,  young  Prince,  wrought  my  King's 

*  Middlcham  Castle  was  built  bv  Robert  Fitz  Ranulph.  grandson  of  Ribald,  younger 
brother  of  the  Earl  of  Bretagne  and  Richmond,  nephew  to  the  Conqueror.  The  founder's 
line  failed  in  male  heirs,  and  the  heiress  married  Robert  Nevile,  son  of  Lord  Raby.  War- 
wick's father  held  the  eirldom  of  Salisbury  in  right  of  his  wife,  the  heiress  of  Thomas  do 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  2t>l 

displeasure!  But  enough  of  these  dissour's  tales:  behold  the 
son  of  poor  Malech,  whom,  forgetting  all  such  legends,  I  slew 
at  Teuton.  Ho!  Saladin — greet  thy  master!" 

They  stood  now  in  the  black  steed's  stall — an  ample  and 
high  vaulted  space,  for  halter  never  insulted  the  fierce  destrier's 
mighty  neck,  which  the  God  of  Battles  had  clothed  in  thunder. 
A  marble  cistern  contained  his  limpid  drink,  and  in  a  gilded 
manger  the  finest  wheaten  bread  was  mingled  with  the  oats  of 
Flanders.  On  entering,  they  found  young  George,  Montagu's 
son,  with  two  or  three  boys,  playing  familiarly  with  the  noble 
animal,  who  had  all  the  affectionate  docility  inherited  from  an 
Arab  origin.  But  at  the  sound  of  Warwick's  voice,  its  ears  rose, 
its  mane  dressed  itself,  and  with  a  short  neigh  it  came  to  his 
feet,  and  kneeling  down,  in  slow  and  stately  grace,  licked  its 
master's  hand.  So  perfect  and  so  matchless  a  steed  never  had 
knight  bestrode!  Its  hide  without  one  white  hair,  and  glossy 
as  the  sheenest  satin;  a  lady's  tresses  were  scarcely  finer  than 
the  hair  of  its  noble  mane ;  the  exceeding  smallness  of  its  head, 
its  broad  frontal,  the  remarkable  and  almost  human  intelligence 
of  its  eye,  seemed  actually  to  elevate  its  conformation  above 
that  of  its  species.  Though  the  race  had  increased,  genera^ 
tion  after  generation,  in  size  and  strength,  Prince  Richard  still 
marvelled  (when,  obedient  to  a  sign  from  Warwick,  the  destrier 
rose,  and  leant  its  head,  with  a  sort  of  melancholy  and  quiet 
tenderness,  upon  the  Earl's  shoulder)  that  a  horse,  less  in  height 
and  bulk  than  the  ordinary  battle  steed,  could  bear  the  vast 
weight  of  the  giant  Earl  in  his  ponderous  mail.  But  his  sur- 
prise ceased  when  the  Earl  pointed  out  to  him  the  immense 
strength  of  the  steed's  ample  loins,  the  sinewy  cleanness,  the 
iron  muscle,  of  the  stag-like  legs,  the  bull-like  breadth  of  chest, 
and  the  swelling  power  of  the  shining  neck. 

"And  after  all,"  added  the  Earl,  "both  in  man  and  beast, 
the  spirit  and  the  race,  not  the  stature  and  the  bulk,  bring  the 
prize.  M0rt  JDieu,  Richard,  it  often  shames  me  of  mine  own 
thews  and  broad  breast — I  had  been  more  vain  of  laurels  had 
I  been  shorter  by  the  head!" 

'  'Nevertheless, "  said  young  George  of  Montagu,  with  a  page's 
pertness,  "I  had  rather  have  thine  inches  than  Prince  Rich- 
ard's, and  thy  broad  breast  than  his  Grace's  short  neck." 

The  Duke  of  Gloucester  turned  as  if  a  snake  had  stung  him. 
He  gave  but  one  glance  to  the  speaker,  but  that  glance  lived 
forever  in  the  boy's  remembrance,  and  the  young  Montagu 
turned  pale  and  trembled,  even  before  he  heard  the  Earl's  stern 
rebuke. 


i62  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"Young  magpies  chatter,  boy — young  eagles  in  silence  meas« 
ure  the  space  between  the  eyrie  and  the  sun!" 

The  boy  hung  his  head,  and  would  have  slunk  off,  but  Rich- 
ard detained  him  with  a  gentle  hand:  "My  fair  young  cousin," 
said  he,  "thy  words  gall  no  sore,  and  if  ever  thou  and  I  charge 
side  by  side  into  the  foeman's  ranks,  thou  shalt  comprehend 
what  thy  uncle  designed  to  say — how  in  the  hour  of  strait  and 
need,  we  measure  men's  stature  not  by  the  body,  but  the  soul!" 

"A  noble  answer,"  whispered  Anne,  with  something  like  sis- 
terly admiration. 

"Too  noble,"  said  the  more  ambitious  Isabel,  in  the  same 
voice,  "for  Clarence's  future  wife  not  to  fear  Clarence's  daunt- 
less brother." 

"And  so,"  said  the  Prince,  quitting  the  stall  with  Warwick, 
while  the  girls  still  lingered  behind,  "so  Saladin  hath  no  son! 
Wherefore?  Can  you  mate  him  with  no  bride?" 

"Faith,"  answered  the  Earl,  "the  females  of  his  race  sleep  in 
yonder  dell,  their  burial-place,  and  the  proud  beast  disdains 
all  meaner  loves.  Nay,  were  it  not  so,  to  continue  the  breed  if 
adulterated,  were  but  to  mar  it." 

"You  care  little  for  the  legend,  meseems." 

"Pardieu!  at  times,  yes,  overmuch ;  but  in  sober  moments, 
I  think  that  the  brave  man  who  does  his  duty  lacks  no  wizard 
prophecy  to  fulfil  his  doom ;  and  whether  in  prayer  or  in  death, 
in  fortune  or  defeat,  his  soul  goes  straight  to  God!" 

"Umph,"  said  Richard  musingly,  and  there  was  a  pause. 

"Warwick,"  resumed  the  Prince,  "doubtless  even  on  your 
return  to  London,  the  Queen's  enmity  and  her  mother's  will 
not  cease.  Clarence  loves  Isabel,  but  Clarence  knows  not  how 
to  persuade  the  King  and  rule  the  King's  womankind.  Thou 
knowest  how  I  have  stood  aloof  from  all  the  factions  of  the 
court.  Unhappily  I  go  to  the  borders,  and  can  but  slightly 
serve  thee.  But — "  (he  stopped  short,  and  sighed  heavily). 

"Speak  on,  Prince." 

"In  a  word,  then,  if  I  were  thy  son,  Anne's  husband — I  see — 
I  see — I  see"(thrice  repeated  the  Prince,  with  a  vague  dreami- 
iness  in  his  eye,  and  stretching  forth  his  hand) —  "a  future 
that  might  defy  all  foes,  opening  to  me  and  thee!" 

Warwick  hesitated  in  some  embarrassment. 

"My  gracious  and  princely  cousin,"  he  said,  at  length,  "this 
proffer  is  indeed  sweet  incense  to  a  father's  pride.  But  pardon 
me,  as  yet,  noble  Richard,  thou  art  so  young  that  the  King  and 
the  world  would  blame  me  did  I  suffer  my  ambition  to  listen 
to  such  temptation.  Enough  at  present,  if  all  disputes  between 


?HE   LASt    OP    THE   BARONS.  263 

our  house  and  the  King  can  be  smoothed  and  laid  at  rest,  with- 
out provoking  new  ones.  Nay,  pardon  me,  Prince,  let  this 
matter  cease — at  least,  till  thy  return  from  the  borders." 

"May  I  take  with  me  hope?" 

"Nay,"  said  Warwick,  "thou  knowest  that  I  am  a  plain 
man;  to  bid  thee  hope  were  to  plight  my  word.  And,"  he 
added  seriously,  "there  be  reasons  grave,  and  well  to  be  con- 
sidered, why  both  the  daughters  of  a  subject  should  not  wed 
with  their  King's  brothers.  Let  this  cease  now,  I  pray  thee, 
sweet  lord." 

Here  the  demoiselles  joined  their  father,  and  the  conference 
was  over:  but  when  Richard,  an  hour  after,  stood  musing  alone 
on  the  battlements,  he  muttered  to  himself;  "Thou  art  a  fool, 
stout  Earl,  not  to  have  welcomed  the  union  between  thy  power 
and  my  wit.  Thou  goest  to  a  court  where,  without  wit,  power 
is  nought.  Who  may  foresee  the  future?  Marry,  that  was  a 
wise  ancient  fable,  that  he  who  seized  and  bound  Proteus 
could  extract  from  the  changeful  god  the  prophecy  of  the  days 
to  come.  Yea !  the  man  who  can  seize  fate,  can  hear  its  voice 
predict  to  him.  And  by  my  own  heart  and  brain,  which  never 
yet  relinquished  what  affection  yearned  for  or  thought  aspired 
to,  I  read,  as  in  a  book,  Anne,  that  thou  shalt  be  mine ;  and 
that  where  wave  on  yon  battlements  the  ensigns  of  Beauchamp, 
Monthermer,  and  Nevile,  the  Boar  of  Gloucester  shall  liege  it 
over  their  broad  baronies  and  hardy  vassals. ' ' 


264  THE  LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

BOOK  VI. 

WHEREIN  ARE  OPENED  SOME  GLIMPSES  OF  THE  FATE, 
BELOW,  THAT  ATTENDS  THOSE  WHO  ARE  BETTER 
THAN  OTHERS,  AND  THOSE  WHO  DESIRE  TO  MAKE 
OTHERS  BETTER.  LOVE,  DEMAGOGY,  AND  SCIENCE 
ALL  EQUALLY  OFFSPRING  OF  THE  SAME  PROLIFIC 

DELUSION VIZ.,  THAT  MEAN  SOULS  (THE  EARTH'S 

MAJORITY)  ARE  WORTH  THE  HOPE  AND  THE  AGONY 
OF  NOBLE  SOULS,  THE  EVERLASTINGLY  SUFFERING 
AND  ASPIRING  FEW. 


CHAPTER  I. 

NEW    DISSENSIONS. 

WE  must  pass  over  some  months.  Warwick  and  his  family 
had  returned  to  London,  and  the  meeting  between  Edward  and 
the  Earl  had  been  cordial  and  affectionate.  Warwick  was 
reinstated  in  the  offices  which  gave  him  apparently  the  supreme 
rule  in  England.  The  Princess  Margaret  had  left  England,  as 
the  bride  of  Charles  the  Bold ;  and  the  Earl  had  attended  the 
procession  in  honor  of  her  nuptials.  The  King,  agreeably 
with  the  martial  objects  he  had  had  long  at  heart,  had  then 
declared  war  on  Louis  XL,  and  Parliament  was  addressed,  and 
troops  were  raised  for  that  impolitic  purpose.*  To  this  war, 
however,  Warwick  was  inflexibly  opposed.  He  pointed  out 
the  madness  of  withdrawing  from  England  all  her  best  affected 
chivalry,  at  a  time  when  the  adherents  of  Lancaster,  still  pow- 
erful, would  require  no  happier  occasion  to  raise  the  Red  Rose 
banner.  He  snowed  how  hollow  was  the  hope  of  steady  aid 
from  the  hot,  but  reckless  and  unprincipled  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy, and  how  different  now  was  the  condition  of  France 
under  a  king  of  consummate  sagacity,  and  with  an  overflowing 
treasury,  to  its  distracted  state  in  the  former  conquests  of  the 
English.  This  opposition  to  the  King's  will  gave  every  oppor- 
tunity for  Warwick's  enemies  to  renew  their  old  accusations  of 
secret  and  treasonable  amity  with  Louis.  Although  the  proud 
and  hasty  Earl  had  not  only  forgiven  the  aL'ront  put  upon  him 
by  Edward,  but  had  sought  to  make  amends  for  his  own  intem- 

*  Parliamentary  Rolls,  623.     The  fact  in  the  text  has  been  neglected  by  most  historians. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  265 

perate  resentment,  by  public  attendance  on  the  ceremonials 
that  accompanied  the  betrothal  of  the  Princess,  it  was  impossi- 
ble for  Edward  ever  again  to  love  the  minister  who  had  defied 
his  power,  and  menaced  his  crown.  His  humor  and  his  suspi- 
cions broke  forth  despite  the  restraint  that  policy  dictated  to 
him ;  and  in  the  disputes  upon  the  invasion  of  France,  a  sec- 
ond and  more  deadly  breach  between  Edward  and  his  minister 
must  have  yawned,  had  not  events  suddenly  and  unexpectedly 
proved  the  wisdom  of  Warwick's  distrust  of  Burgundy.  Louis 
with  XI.  bought  off  the  Duke  of  Bretagne,  patched  up  a  peace 
Charles  the  Bold,  and  thus  frustrated  all  the  schemes,  and  broke 
all  the  alliances  of  Edward  at  the  very  moment  his  military 
preparations  were  ripe.* 

Still  the  angry  feelings  that  the  dispute  had  occasioned  be- 
tween Edward  and  the  Earl  were  not  removed  with  the  cause; 
and,  under  pretence  of  guarding  against  hostilities  from  Louis, 
the  King  requested  Warwick  to  depart  to  his  government  of 
Calais,  the  most  important  and  honorable  post,  it  is  true,  which 
a  subject  could  then  hold;  but  Warwick  considered  the  request 
as  a  pretext  for  his  removal  from  the  Court.  A  yet  more  irri- 
tating and  insulting  cause  of  offence  was  found  in  Edward's 
withholding  his  consent  to  Clarence's  often-urged  demand  for 
permission  to  wed  with  the  Lady  Isabel.  It  is  true  that  this 
refusal  was  accompanied  with  the  most  courteous  protesta- 
tions of  respect  for  the  Earl,  and  placed  only  upon  the  general 
ground  of  state  policy. 

"My  dear  George,"  Edward  would  say,  "the  heiress  of  Lord 
Warwick  is  certainly  no  mal-alliance  for  a  King's  brother;  but 
the  safety  of  the  throne  imperatively  demands  that  my  brothers 
should  strengthen  my  rule,  by  connections  with  foreign  poten- 
tates. I,  it  is  true,  married  a  subject,  and  see  all  the  troubles 
that  have  sprung  from  my  boyish  passion!  No,  no!  Go  to 
Bretagne.  The  Duke  hath  a  fair  daughter,  and  we  will  make 
up  for  any  scantiness  in  the  dower.  Weary  me  no  more, 
George.  Fiat  voluntas  mea  !  " 

But  the  motives  assigned  were  not  those  which  influenced 
the  King's  refusal.  Reasonably  enough,  he  dreaded  that  the 
next  male  heir  to  his  crown  should  wed  the  daughter  of  the 
subject  who  had  given  that  crown,  and  might  at  any  time  take 
it  away.  He  knew  Clarence  to  be  giddy,  unprincipled,  and 
vain.  Edward's  faith  in  Warwick  was  shaken  by  the  continual 
and  artful  representations  of  the  Queen  and  her  family.  He 
felt  that  the  alliance  between  Clarence  and  the  Earl  would  be 

*  W.  Wyr.    518. 


266  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

the  union  of  two  interests,  almost  irresistible,  if  once  arrayed 
against  his  own. 

But  Warwick,  who  penetrated  into  the  true  reasons  for  Ed- 
ward's obstinacy,  was  yet  more  resentful  against  the  reasons 
than  the  obstinacy  itself.  The  one  galled  him  through  his 
affections,  the  other  through  his  pride;  and  the  first  were  as 
keen  as  the  last  was  morbid.  He  was  the  more  chafed,  inas- 
much as  his  anxiety  of  father  became  aroused.  Isabel  was 
really  attached  to  Clarence,  who,  with  all  his  errors,  possessed 
every  superficial  attraction  that  graced  his  house ;  gallant  and 
handsome,  gay  and  joyous,  and  with  manners  that  made  him 
no  less  popular  than  Edward  himself. 

And  if  Isabel's  affections  were  not  deep,  disinterested,  and 
tender,  like  those  of  Anne,  they  were  strengthened  by  a  pride 
which  she  inherited  from  her  father,  and  a  vanity  which  she 
took  from  her  sex.  It  was  galling  in  the  extreme  to  feel  that 
the  loves  between  her  and  Clarence  were  the  court  gossip,  and 
the  King's  refusal  the  court  jest.  Her  health  gave  way,  and 
pride  and  love  both  gnawed  at  her  heart. 

It  happened,  unfortunately  for  the  King  and  for  Warwick, 
that  Gloucester,  whose  premature  acuteness  and  sagacity  would 
have  the  more  served  both,  inasmuch  as  the  views  he  had 
formed  in  regard  to  Anne  would  have  blended  his  interest,  in 
some  degree,  with  that  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  and  certainly 
with  the  object  of  conciliation  between  Edward  and  his  minis- 
ter,— it  happened,  we  say,  unfortunately,  that  Gloucester  was 
still  absent  with  the  forces  employed  on  the  Scottish  frontier, 
whither  he  had  repaired  on  quitting  Middleham,  and  where  his 
extraordinary  military  talents  found  their  first  brilliant  opening; 
and  he  was  therefore  absent  from  London  during  all  the  dis- 
gusts he  might  have  removed,  and  the  intrigues  he  might  have 
frustrated. 

But  the  interests  of  the  House  of  Warwick,  during  the  Earl's 
sullen  and  indignant  sojourn  at  his  government  of  Calais,  were 
not  committed  to  unskilful  hands;  and  Montagu  and  the  Arch- 
bishop were  well  fitted  to  cope  with  Lord  Rivers  and  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford. 

Between  these  able  brothers,  one  day,  at  the  More,  an  im- 
portant conference  took  place. 

"I  have  sought  you,"  said  Montagu,  with  more  than  usual 
care  upon  his  brow — "I  have  sought  you  in  consequence  of  an 
event  that  may  lead  to  issues  of  no  small  moment,  whether  for 
good  or  evil.  Clarence  has  suddenly  left  England  for  Calais. " 

"I  know  it,  Montagu;  the  Duke  confided  to  me  his  resolti- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  267 

tion  to  proclaim  himself  old  enough  to  marry — and  discreet 
enough  to  choose  for  himself." 

"And  you  approved?" 

"Certes;  and,  sooth  to  say,  I  brought  him  to  that  modest 
opinion  of  his  own  capacities.  What  is  more  still,  I  propose 
to  join  him  at  Calais!" 

"George!" 

"Look  not  so  scared,  O  valiant  captain,  who  never  lost  a 
battle — where  the  Church  meddles,  all  prospers.  Listen!" 
And  the  young  prelate  gathered  himself  up  from  his  listless 
posture,  and  spoke  with  earnest  unction:  "Thou  knowest  that 
I  do  not  much  busy  myself  in  lay  schemes — when  I  do,  the 
object  must  be  great.  Now,  Montagu,  I  have  of  late  narrowly 
and  keenly  watched  that  spidery  web  which  ye  call  a  court, 
and  I  see  that  the  spider  will  devour  the  wasp,  unless  the  wasp 
boldly  break  the  web — for  woman-craft  I  call  the  spider,  and 
soldier-pride  I  style  the  wasp.  To  speak  plainly,  these  Wood- 
villes  must  be  bravely  breasted  and  determinedly  abashed.  I 
do  not  mean  that  we  can  deal  with  the  King's  wife  and  her 
family  as  with  any  other  foes ;  but  we  must  convince  them  that 
they  cannot  cope  with  us,  and  that  their  interest  will  best  con- 
sist in  acquiescing  to  that  condition  of  things  which  places  the 
rule  of  England  in  the  hands  of  the  Neviles. " 

"My  own  thought,  if  I  saw  the  way!" 

"I  see  the  way  in  this  alliance;  the  Houses  of  York  and 
Warwick  must  become  so  indissolubly  united,  that  an  attempt 
to  injure  the  one  must  destroy  both.  The  Queen  and  the 
Woodvilles  plot  against  us;  we  must  raise  in  the  King's  family 
a  counterpoise  to  their  machinations.  It  brings  no  scandal  on 
the  Queen  to  conspire  against  Warwick,  but  it  would  ruin  her 
in  the  eyes  of  England  to  conspire  against  the  King's  brother; 
and  Clarence  and  Warwick  must  be  as  one.  This  is  not  all! 
If  our  sole  aid  was  in  giddy  George,  we  should  but  buttress 
our  house  with  a  weathercock.  This  connection  is  but  as  a  part 
of  the  grand  scheme  on  which  I  have  set  my  heart — Clarence 
shall  wed  Isabel,  Gloucester  wed  Anne,  and  (let  thy  ambitious 
heart  beat  high,  Montagu)  the  King's  eldest  daughter  shall  wed 
thy  son — the  male  representative  of  our  triple  honors.  Ah, 
thine  eyes  sparkle  now !  Thus  the  whole  royalty  of  England 
shall  centre  in  the  Houses  of  Nevile  and  York;  and  the 
Woodvilles  will  be  caught  and  hampered  in  their  own  meshes — 
their  resentment  impotent;  for  how  can  Elizabeth  stir  against 
us,  if  her  daughter  be  betrothed  to  the  son  of  Montagu,  the 
nephew  of  Warwick.  Clarence,  beloved  by  the  shallow  Com- 


«68  THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

mons;*  Gloucester,  adored  both  by  army  and  the  Church ;  and 
Montagu  and  Warwick,  the  two  great  captains  of  the  age — is 
not  this  a  combination  of  power  that  may  defy  Fate?" 

"Oh,  George!"  said  Montagu  admiringly,  "what  pity  that 
the  Church  should  spoil  such  a  statesman!" 

"Thou  art  profane,  Montagu;  the  Church  spoils  no  man — 
the  Church  leads  and  guides  ye  all;  and,  mark,  I  look  farther 
still.  I  would  have  intimate  league  with  France;  I  would 
strengthen  ourselves  with  Spain  and  the  German  Emperor;  I 
would  buy,  or  seduce,  the  votes  of  the  sacred  college;  I  would 
have  thy  poor  brother,  whom  thou  so  pitiest  because  he  has  no 
son  to  marry  a  king's  daughter — no  daughter  to  wed  with  a 
king's  son — I  would  have  thy  unworthy  brother,  Montagu,  the 
father  of  the  whole  Christian  world,  and,  from  the  chair  of  the 
Vatican,  watch  over  the  weal  of  kingdoms.  And  now,  seest 
thou  why  with  to-morrow's  sun  I  depart  for  Calais,  and  lend 
my  voice  in  aid  of  Clarence's  for  the  first  knot  in  this  compli- 
cated bond?" 

"But,  will  Warwick  consent  while  the  King  opposes?  Will 
his  pride — " 

"His  pride  serves  us  here;  for,  so  long  as  Clarence  did  not 
dare  to  gainsay  the  King,  Warwick,  in  truth,  might  well  dis- 
dain to  press  his  daughter's  hand  upon  living  man.  The  King 
opposes,  but  with  what  right?  Warwick's  pride  will  but  lead 
him,  if  well  addressed,  to  defy  affront,  and  to  resist  dictation. 
Besides,  our  brother  has  a  woman's  heart  for  his  children;  and 
Isabel's  face  is  pale,  and  that  will  plead  more  than  all  my 
eloquence." 

"But  can  the  King  forgive  your  intercession,  and  Warwick's 
contumacy?" 

"Forgive! — the  marriage  once  over,  what  is  left  for  him  to 
do?  He  is  then  one  with  us,  and  when  Gloucester  returns  all 
will  be  smooth  again — smooth  for  the  second  and  more  impor- 
tant nuptials — and  the  second  shall  preface  the  third ;  mean- 
while, you  return  to  the  court.  To  these  ceremonials  you  need 
be  no  party;  keep  but  thy  handsome  son  from  breaking  his 
neck  in  overriding  his  hobby,  and  'bide  thy  time'!" 

Agreeably  with  the  selfish,  but  sagacious,  policy,  thus  de- 
tailed, the  prelate  departed  the  next  day  for  Calais,  where  Clar- 
ence was  already  urging  his  suit  with  the  ardent  impatience  of 
amorous  youth.  The  Archbishop  found,  however,  that  War- 

*  Singular  as  it  may  seem  to  those  who  know  not  that  popularity  is  given  to  the  vulgar 
qualities  of  men,  and  that  where  a  noble  nature  becomes  popular  (a  rare  occurrence),  it 
is  despite  the  nobleness — not  because  of  it,  Clarence  was  a  popular  idol  even  to  the  time  of 
pis  death. — Croj>t.t  568, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  20Q 

wick  was  more  reluctant  than  he  had  anticipated  to  suffer  his 
daughter  to  enter  any  house  without  the  consent  of  its  chief, 
nor  would  the  Earl,  in  all  probability,  have  acceded  to  the 
prayers  of  the  princely  suitor,  had  not  Edward,  enraged  at  the 
flight  of  Clarence,  and  worked  upon  by  the  artful  Queen,  com- 
mitted the  imprudence  of  writing  an  intemperate  and  menacing 
letter  to  the  Earl,  which  called  up  all  the  passions  of  the 
haughty  Warwick. 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "thinks  this  ungrateful  man  not 
only  to  dishonor  me,  by  his  method  of  marrying  his  sisters,  but 
will  he  also  play  the  tyrant  with  me  in  the  disposal  of  mine 
own  daughter!  He  threats!  he! — enough.  It  is  due  tome 
to  show  that  there  lives  no  man  whose  threats  I  have  not  the 
heart  to  defy:5'  And  the  prelate,  finding  him  in  this  mood, 
had  no  longer  any  difficulty  in  winning  his  consent.  This  ill- 
omened  marriage  was,  accordingly,  celebrated  with  great  and 
regal  pomp  at  Calais,  and  the  first  object  of  the  Archbishop 
was  attained. 

While  thus  stood  affairs  between  the  two  great  factions  oi 
the  state,  those  discontents  which  Warwick's  presence  at  court 
had  awhile  laid  at  rest  again  spread,  broad  and  far,  through- 
out the  land.  The  luxury  and  indolence  of  Edward's  disposi- 
tion, in  ordinary  times,  always  surrendered  him  to  the  guidance, 
of  others.  In  the  commencement  of  his  reign  he  was  emi- 
nently popular,  and  his  government,  though  stern,  suited  to  th& 
times;  for  then  the  presiding  influence  was  that  of  Lord  War- 
wick. As  the  Queen's  counsels  prevailed  over  the  consummate 
experience  and  masculine  vigor  of  the  Earl,  the  King's  govern- 
ment lost  both  popularity  and  respect,  except  only  in  thfe 
metropolis ;  and  if,  at  the  close  of  his  reign,  it  regained  all  its 
earlier  favor  with  the  people,  it  must  be  principally  ascribed  to 
the  genius  of  Hastings,  then  England's  most  powerful  subject, 
and  whose  intellect  calmly  moved  all  the  springs  of  action. 
But  now  everywhere  the  royal  authority  was  weakened; 
and  while  Edward  was  feasting  at  Shene,  and  Warwick  absent 
at  Calais,  the  provinces  were  exposed  to  all  the  abuses  which 
most  gall  a  population.  The  poor  complained  that  undue 
exactions  were  made  on  them  by  the  hospitals,  abbeys,  and 
barons;  the  Church  complained  that  the  Queen's  relations  had 
seized  and  spent  Church  moneys ;  the  men  of  birth  and  merit 
complained  of  the  advancement  of  new  men  who  had  done  no 
service;  and  all  these  several  discontents  fastened  themselves 
upon  the  odious  Woodvilles,  as  the  cause  of  all.  The  second 
breach,  now  notorious,  between  the  King  and  the  all-beloved 


27O  'UK    LAST   OF   THE    BARONS. 

Warwick,  was  a  new  aggravation  of  the  popular  hatred  to  the 
Queen's  family,  and  seemed  to  give  occasion  for  the  malcon- 
tents to  appear  with  impunity,  at  least  so  far  as  the  Earl  was 
concerned :  it  was,  then,  at  this  critical  time  that  the  circum- 
stances we  are  about  to  relate  occurred. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   WOULD-BE    IMPROVERS   OF   JOVE'S     FOOT-BALL,     EARTH — 
THE  SAD   FATHER    AND    THE    SAD    CHILD THE    FAIR    RIVALS. 

ADAM  WARNER  was  at  work  on  his  crucible  when  the  servi- 
tor commissioned  to  attend  him  opened  the  chamber  door,  and 
a  man  dressed  in  the  black  gown  of  a  student  entered. 

He  approached  the  alchemist,  and  after  surveying  him  for  a 
moment  in  a  silence  that  seemed  not  without  contempt,  said: 
"What,  Master  Warner,  are  you  so  wedded  to  your  new  studies, 
that  you  have  not  a  word  to  bestow  on  an  old  friend?" 

Adam  turned,  and  after  peevishly  gazing  at  the  intruder  a 
few  moments,  his  face  brightened  up  into  recognition. 

"£n  iterum  /"  he  said.  "Again,  bold  Robin  Hilyard,  and 
in  a  scholar's  garb.  Ha!  doubtless  thou  hast  learned  ere  this, 
that  peaceful  studies  do  best  ensure  man's  weal  below,  and  art 
come  to  labor  with  me  in  the  high  craft  of  mind-work !" 

"Adam,"  quoth  Hilyard,  "ere  I  answer,  tell  me  this:  Thou, 
with  thy  science  wouldst  change  the  world — art  thou  a  jot 
nearer  to  thy  end?" 

"Well-a-day,"  said  poor  Adam,  "you  know  little  what  I 
have  undergone;  for  danger  to  myself  by  rack  and  gibbet,  I 
say  nought.  Man's  body  is  fair  prey  to  cruelty,  and  what  a 
king  spares  to-day  the  v/orm  shall  gnaw  to-morrow.  But  mine 
invention — my  Eureka — look!"  and  stepping  aside,  he  lifted 
a  cloth,  and  exhibited  the  mangled  remains  of  the  unhappy 
model. 

"I  am  forbid  to  restore  it,"  continued  Adam  dolefully.  "I 
must  work  day  and  night  to  make  gold,  and  the  gold  comes 
not:  and  my  only  change  of  toil  is  when  the  Queen  bids  me 
construct  little  puppet-boxes  for  her  children!  How,  then, 
can  I  change  the  world?  And  thou,"  he  added  doubtingly 
and  eagerly — "thou,  with  thy  plots  and  stratagem,  and  active 
demagogy,  thinkest  thou  that  thou  hast  changed  the  world,  or 
extracted  one  drop  of  evil  out  of  the  mixture  of  gall  and 
hyssop  which  man  is  born  to  drink?" 

Hilyard  was  silent,  and  the  two  world-betterers — the  phil- 


THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS.  271 

osopher  and  the  demagogue — gazed  on  each  other,  half  in  sym- 
pathy, half  contempt.  At  last  Robin  said : 

"Mine  old  friend,  hope  sustains  us  both;  and  in  the  wilder- 
ness we  yet  behold  the  Pisgah !  But  to  my  business.  Doubt- 
less thou  art  permitted  to  visit  Henry  in  his  prison." 

"Not  so,"  replied  Adam:  "and  for  the  rest,  since  I  now  eat 
King  Edward's  bread,  and  enjoy  what  they  call  his  protection, 
ill  would  it  beseem  me  to  lend  myself  to  plots  against  his 
throne." 

"Ah!  man — man — man,"  exclaimed  Hilyard  bitterly,  "thou 
art  like  all  the  rest — scholar  or  serf,  the  same  slave;  a  king's 
smile  bribes  thee  from  a  people's  service!" 

Before  Adam  could  reply,  a  panel  in  the  wainscot  slid  back,, 
and  the  bald  head  of  a  friar  peered  into  the  room.  "Son 
Adam,"  said  the  holy  man,  "I  crave  your  company  an  instant, 
oro  vestrem  aurem  "/  and  with  this  abominable  piece  of  Latinity 
the  friar  vanished. 

With  a  resigned  and  mournful  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  Adam 
walked  across  the  room,  when  Hilyard,  arresting  his  progress, 
said,  crossing  himserf,  and  in  a  subdued  and  fearful  whisper : 
"Is  not  that  Friar  Bungey,  the  notable  magician?" 

"Magician  or  not,"  answered  Warner,  with  a  lip  of  inex- 
pressible contempt  and  a  heavy  sigh,  "God  pardon  his  mother 
for  giving  birth  to  such  a  numbskull!"  And  with  this  pious 
and  charitable  ejaculation  Adam  disappeared  in  the  adjoining 
chamber,  appropriated  to  the  friar. 

"Hum,"  soliloquized  Hilyard,  "theysay  that  Friar  Bungey 
is  employed  by  the  witch  Duchess  in  everlasting  diabolisms 
against  her  foes.  A  peep  into  his  den  might  suffice  me  for  a 
stirring  tale  to  the  people." 

No  sooner  did  this  daring  desire  arise,  than  the  hardy  Robin 
resolved  to  gratify  it ;  and  stealing  on  tiptoe  along  the  wall,  he 
peered  cautiously  through  the  aperture  made  by  the  sliding 
panel.  An  enormous  stuffed  lizard  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and 
various  strange  reptiles,  dried  into  mummy,  were  ranged  around, 
and  glared  at  the  spy  with  green  glass  eyes.  A  huge  book  lay 
open  on  a  tripod  stand,  and  a  caldron  seethed  over  a  slow  and 
dull  fire.  A  sight  yet  more  terrible  presently  awaited  the  rash 
beholder. 

"Adam,"  said  the  friar,  laying  his  broad  palm  on  the  stu- 
dent's reluctant  shoulders,  "inter  sapentes." 

"Sapientes,  brother,"  groaned  Adam. 

"That's  the  old  form,  Adam,"  quoth  the  friar  supercili- 
ously— "  sapentes  is  the  last  improvement.  I  say,  between 


Z"]2  THE    LAST    OF    THE   IURONS. 

wise  men  there  is  no  envy.  Our  noble  and  puissant  patroness, 
the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  hath  committed  to  me  a  task  that 
promiseth  much  profit.  I  have  worked  at  it  night  and  day 
stotif  filibus" 

"O  man,  what  lingo  speakest  thou? — stotis  filibus  !" 

"Tush,  if  it  is  not  good  Latin,  it  does  as  well,  son  Adam.  1 
say  I  have  worked*  at  it  night  and  day,  and  it  is  now  advanced 
eno'  for  experiment.  But  thou  art  going  to  sleep." 

"Dispatch — speak  out — speak  on!"  said  Adam  desperately; 
"What  is  thy  achievement?" 

"See!"  answered  the  friar  majestically;  and  drawing  aside 
a  black  pall,  he  exhibited  to  the  eyes  of  Adam,  and  to  the  more 
startled  gaze  of  Robin  Hilyard,  a  pale,  cadaverous,  corpse-like 
image,  of  pigmy  proportions,  but  with  features  moulded  into 
a  coarse  caricature  of  the  lordly  countenance  of  the  Earl  of 
Warwick. 

"There,"  said  the  friar  complacently,  and  rubbing  his  hands; 
"that  is  no  piece  of  bungling,  eh!  As  like  the  stout  Earl  as 
one  pea  to  another." 

"And  for  what  hast  thou  kneaded  up  all  this  waste  of  wax?" 
asked  Adam.  "Forsooth  I  knew  not  you  had  so  much  of  in- 
genious art;  algates,  the  toy  is  somewhat  ghastly." 

"Ho,  ho!"  quoth  the  friar,  laughing  so  as  to  show  a  set  of 
jagged,  discolored  fangs  from  ear  to  ear,  "surely  thou,  who 
art  so  notable  a  wizard  and  scholar,  knowest  for  what  purpose 
we  image  forth  our  enemies.  Whatever  the  Duchess  inflicts 
upon  this  figure,  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  whom  it  representeth, 
will  feel  through  his  bones  and  marrow — waste  wax,  waste 
man!" 

"Thou  art  a  devil  to  do  this  thing,  and  a  blockhead  to  think 
it,  O  miserable  friar,"  exclaimed  Adam,  roused  from  all  his 
gentleness. 

"Ha!"  cried  the  friar,  no  less  vehemently,  arid  his  burly 
face  purple  with  passion,  "dost  thou  think  to  bandy  words 
with  me?  Wretch !  I  will  set  goblins  to  pinch  thee  black  and 
blue.  I  will  drag  thee  at  night  over  all  the  jags  of  Mount 
Pepanon,  at  the  tail  of  a  mad  nightmare.  I  will  put  aches  in 
all  thy  bones,  and  the  blood  in  thy  veins  shall  run  into  sores 
and  blotches.  Am  I  not  Friar  Bungey?  And  what  art  thou?" 

At  these  terrible  denunciations,  the  sturdy  Robin,  though 
far  less  superstitious  than  most  of  his  contemporaries,  was 
seized  with  a  trembling  from  head  to  foot;  and  expecting  to  see 
goblins  and  imps  start  forth  from  the  walls,  he  retired  hastily 
from  his  hiding-place,  and,  without  waiting  for  further  com- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  273 

mune  with  Warner,  softly  opened  the  chamber  door,  and  stole 
down  the  stairs.  Adam,  however,  bore  the  storm  unquailingly, 
and  when  the  holy  man  paused  to  take  breath,  he  said  calmly : 

"Verily,  if  thou  canst  do  these  things,  there  must  be  secrets 
in  Nature  which  I  have  not  yet  discovered.  Howbeit,  though 
thou  art  free  to  try  all  thou  canst  against  me,  thy  threats  make 
it  necessary  that  this  communication  between  us  should  be 
nailed  up,  and  I  shall  so  order." 

The  friar,  who  was  ever  in  want  of  Adam's  aid,  either  to 
construe  a  bit  of  Latin,  or  to  help  him  in  some  chemical  illu- 
sion, by  no  means  relished  this  quiet  retort;  and,  holding  out 
his  huge  hand  to  Adam,  said,  with  affected  cordiality : 

"Pooh!  we  are  brothers,  and  must  not  quarrel.  I  was  over 
hot,  and  thou  too  provoking;  but  I  honor  and  love  thee,  man — 
let  it  pass.  As  for  this  figure,  doubtless  we  might  pink  it  all 
over,  and  the  Earl  be  never  the  worse.  But  if  our  employers 
order  these  things,  and  pay  for  them,  we  cunning  men  make 
profit  by  fools!" 

"It  is  men  like  thee  that  bring  shame  on  science,"  answered 
Adam  sternly;  "and  I  will  not  listen  to  thee  longer." 

"Nay,  but  you  must,"  said  the  friar,  clutching  Adam's  robe, 
and  concealing  his  resentment  by  an  affected  grin.  "Thou 
thinkest  me  a  mere  ignoramus — ha!  ha! — I  think  the  same  of 
thee.  Why,  man,  thou  hast  never  studied  the  parts  of  the 
human  body,  I'll  swear." 

"I'm  no  leech,"  answered  Adam.     "Let  me  go." 

"No — not  yet.  I  will  convict  thee  of  ignorance.  Thou 
dost  not  even  know  where  the  liver  is  placed." 

"I  do,"  answered  Adam  shortly;   "but  what  then?" 

"Thou  dost!  I  deny  it.  Here  is  a  pin;  stick  it  into  this 
wax,  man,  where  thou  sayest  the  liver  lies  in  the  human 
frame." 

Adam  unsuspiciously  obeyed. 

"Well! — the  liver  is  there,  eh.  Ah!  but  where  are  the 
lungs?" 

"Why,  here." 

"And  the  midriff?" 

"Here,  certes." 

"Right! — thou  mayst  go  now,"  said  the  friar  dryly.  Adam 
disappeared  through  the  aperture,  and  closed  the  panel. 

"Now  I  know  where  the  lungs,  midriff,  and  liver  are,"  said 
the  friar  to  himself,  "I  shall  get  on  famously.  'Tis  an  useful 
fellow,  that,  or  I  should  have  had  him  hanged  long  ago!" 

Adam  did  not  remark,  on  his  re-entrance,  that  his  visitor, 


274  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

Hilyard,  had  disappeared,  and  the  philosopher  was  soon  re- 
immersed  in  the  fiery  interest  of  his  thankless  labors. 

It  might  be  an  hour  afterwards,  when,  wearied  and  exhausted 
by  perpetual  hope  and  perpetual  disappointment,  he  flung  him- 
self on  his  seat;  and  that  deep  sadness,  which  they  who  devote 
themselves  in  this  noisy  world  to  wisdom  and  to  truth  alone  can 
know,  suffused  his  thoughts,  and  murmured  from  his  feverish 
lips. 

"Oh,  hard  condition  of  my  life!"  groaned  the  sage — "ever 
to  strive,  and  never  to  accomplish.  The  sun  sets  and  the  sun 
rises  upon  my  eternal  toils,  and  my  age  stands  as  distant  from 
the  goal,  as  stood  my  youth !  Fast,  fast  the  mind  is  wearing 
out  the  frame,  and  my  schemes  have  but  woven  the  ropes  of 
sand,  and  my  name  shall  be  writ  in  water.  Golden  dreams  of 
my  young  hope,  where  are  ye?  Methought  once,  that  could  I 
obtain  the  grace  of  royalty,  the  ear  of  power,  the  command  of 
wealth,  my  path  to  glory  was  made  smooth  and  sure — I  should 
become  the  grand  inventor  of  my  time  and  land;  I  should 
leave  my  lord  a  heritage  and  blessing  wherever  labor  works  to 
civilize  the  round  globe.  And  now  my  lodging  is  a  palace — 
royalty  my  patron — they  give  me  gold  at  my  desire — my  wants 
no  longer  mar  my  leisure.  Well !  and  for  what?  On  condi- 
tion that  I  forego  the  sole  task  for  which  patronage,  wealth, 
and  leisure  were  desired !  There  stands  the  broken  iron,  and 
there  simmers  the  ore  I  am  to  turn  to  gold — the  iron  worth 
more  than  all  the  gold,  and  the  gold,  never  to  be  won!  Poor, 
I  was  an  inventor,  a  creator,  the  true  magician ;  protected, 
patronized,  enriched,  I  am  but  the  alchemist,  the  bubble,  the 
dupe  or  duper,  the  fool's  fool.  God,  brace  up  my  limbs!  Let 
me  escape — give  me  back  my  old  dream,  and  die,  at  least,  if 
accomplishing  nothing,  hoping  all!" 

He  rose  as  he  spoke,  he  strode  across  the  chamber  with 
majestic  step,  with  resolve  upon  his  brow.  He  stopped  short, 
for  a  sharp  pain  shot  across  his  heart.  Premature  age,  and  the 
disease  that  labor  brings,  were  at  their  work  of  decay  within : 
the  mind's  excitement  gave  way  to  the  body's  weakness,  and 
he  sank  again  upon  his  seat,  breathing  hard,  gasping,  pale,  the 
icy  damps  upon  his  brow.  Bubblingly  seethed  the  molten 
metals,  redly  glowed  the  poisonous  charcoal;  the  air  of  death 
was  hot  within  the  chamber  where  the  victim  of  royal  will  pan- 
dered to  the  desire  of  gold — terrible  and  eternal  moral  for 
Wisdom  and  for  Avarice,  for  sages  and  for  kings — ever  shall  he 
who  would  be  the  maker  of  gold,  breathe  the  air  of  death! 

"Father,"  said  the  low  and  touching  voice  of  one  who  had 


THE    LAST    OF   THE    BARONS.  2*75 

entered  unperceived,  and  who  now  threw  her  arms  round 
Adam's  neck;  "Father,  thou  art  ill,  and  sorely  suffering — " 

"At  heart — yes,  Sibyll.  Give  me  thine  arm;  let  us  forth 
and  taste  the  fresher  air." 

It  was  so  seldom  that  Warner  could  be  induced  to  quit  his 
chamber,  that  these  words  almost  startled  Sibyll,  and  she 
looked  anxiously  in  his  face,  as  she  wiped  the  dews  from  his 
forehead. 

"Yes — air — air!"  repeated  Adam,  rising. 

Sibyll  placed  his  bonnet  over  his  silvered  locks,  drew  his 
gown  more  closely  round  him,  and  slowly,  and  in  silence,  they 
left  the  chamber,  and  took  their  way  across  the  court  to  the 
ramparts  of  the  fortress-palace. 

The  day  was  calm  and  genial,  with  a  low  but  fresh  breeze 
stiring  gently  through  the  warmth  of  noon.  The  father  and 
child  seated  themselves  on  the  parapet,  and  saw,  below,  the 
gay  and  numerous  vessels  that  glided  over  the  sparkling  river, 
while  the  dark  walls  of  Baynard's  Castle,  the  adjoining  bulwark 
and  battlements  of  Montfichet,  and  the  tall  watch-tower  of 
Warwick's  mighty  mansion,  frowned  in  the  distance,  against 
the  soft  blue  sky.  "There,"  said  Adam  quietly,  and  point- 
ing to  the  feudal  roofs,  "there  seems  to  rise  power — and  yon- 
der (glancing  to  the  river) — yonder  seems  to  flow  genius!  A 
century  or  so  hence,  the  walls  shall  vanish,  but  the  river  shall 
roll  on.  Man  makes  the  castle,  and  founds  the  power — God 
forms  the  river,  and  creates  the  genius.  And  yet,  Sibyll,  there 
may  be  streams  as  broad  and  stately  as  yonder  Thames,  that 
flow  afar  in  the  waste,  never  seen,  never  heard  by  man.  What 
profits  the  river  unmarked?  What  the  genius  never  to  be 
known?" 

It  was  not  a  common  thing  with  Adam  Warner  to  be  thus 
eloquent.  Usually  silent  and  absorbed,  it  was  not  his  gift  to 
moralize  or  declaim.  His  soul  must  be  deeply  moved  before  the 
profound  and  buried  sentiment  within  it  could  escape  into  words. 

Sibyll  pressed  her  father's  hand,  and,  though  her  own  heart 
was  very  heavy,  she  forced  her  lips  to  smile,  and  her  voice  to 
soothe.  Adam  interrupted  her. 

"Child,  child,  ye  women  know  not  what  presses  darkest  and 
most  bitterly  on  the  minds  of  men.  You  know  not  what  it  is 
to  form  out  of  immaterial  things  some  abstract  but  glorious  ob- 
ject, to  worship,  to  serve  it,  to  sacrifice  to  it,  as  on  an  altar, 
youth,  health,  hope,  life — and  suddenly,  in  old  age,  to  see  that 
the  idol  was  a  phantom,  a  mockery,  a  shadow  laughing  us  to 
scorn,  because  we  have  sought  to  clasp  it." 


fj6  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"Oh,  yes,  father,  women  have  known  that  illusion." 

"What!     Do  they  study?" 

"No,  father,  but  they  feel!" 

"Feel!   I  comprehend  thee  not." 

"As  man's  genius  to  him,  is  woman's  heart  to  her,"  an* 
swered  Sibyll,  her  dark  and  deep  eyes  suffused  with. tears. 
' '  Doth  not  the  heart  create — invent?  Doth  it  not  dream  ?  Doth 
it  not  form  its  idol  out  of  air?  Goeth  it  not  forth  into  the  future, 
to  prophesy  to  itself?  And,  sooner  or  later,  in  age  or  youth, 
doth  it  not  wake  at  last,  and  see  how  it  hath  wasted  its  all  on 
follies?  Yes,  father,  my  heart  can  answer,  when  thy  genius 
would  complain." 

"Sibyll,"  said  Warner,  roused,  and  surprised,  and  gazing  on 
her  wistfully,  "time  flies  apace.  Till  this  hour  I  have  thought 
of  thee  but  as  a  child — an  infant.  Thy  words  disturb  me  now." 

"Think  not  of  them,  then.  Let  me  never  add  one  grief  to 
thine." 

"Thou  art  brave  and  gay  in  thy  silken  sheen,"  said  Adam 
curiously,  stroking  down  the  rich,  smooth  stuff  of  Sibyll's 
tunic;  "Her  Grace  the  Duchess  is  generous  to  us.  Thou  art 
surely  happy  here!" 

"Happy!" 

"Not  happy!"  exclaimed  Adam  almost  joyfully;  "Wouldst 
thou  that  we  were  back  once  more  in  our  desolate  ruined 
home?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes! — but  rather  away,  far  away,  in  some  quiet  vil- 
lage, some  green  nook ;  for  the  desolate  ruined  home  was  not 
safe  for  thine  old  age." 

"I  would  we  could  escape,  Sibyll, "said  Adam  earnestly,  in 
a  whisper,  and  with  a  kind  of  innocent  cunning  in  his  eye — 
"we  and  the  poor  Eureka!  The  palace  is  a  prison-house  to 
me.  I  will  speak  to  the  Lord  Hastings,  a  man  of  great  excel- 
lence, and  gentle  too.  He  is  ever  kind  to  us." 

"No,  no,  father,  not  to  him,"  cried  Sibyll,  turning  pale; 
"let  him  not  know  a  word  of  what  we  would  propose,  nor 
whither  we  would  fly." 

"Child,  he  loves  me,  or  why  does  he  seek  me  so  often,  and 
sit  and  talk  not?" 

Sibyll  pressed  her  clasped  hands  tightly  to  her  bosom,  but 
made  no  answer ;  and  while  she  was  summoning  courage  to  say 
something  that  seemed  to  oppress  her  thoughts  with  intolerable 
weight,  a  footstep  sounded  gently  near,  and  the  Lady  of  Bon- 
ville  (then  on  a  visit  to  the  Queen),  unseen,  and  unheard  by 
the  two,  approached  the  spot.  She  paused,  and  gazed  at 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  277 

Sibyll,  at  first  haughtily;  and  then,  as  the  deep  sadness  of.  that 
young  face  struck  her  softer  feelings,  and  the  pathetic  picture 
of  father  and  child,  thus  alone  in  their  commune,  made  its 
pious  and  sweet  effect,  the  gaze  changed  from  pride  to  compas- 
sion, and  the  lady  said  courteously: 

"Fair  mistress,  canst  thou  prefer  this  solitary  scene  to  the 
gay  company  about  to  take  the  air  in  her  Grace's  gilded 
barge?" 

Sibyll  looked  up  in  surprise,  not  unmixed  with  fear.  Never 
before  had  the  great  lady  spoken  to  her  thus  gently.  Adam, 
who  seemed  for  a  while  restored  to  the  actual  life,  saluted 
Katherine  with  simple  dignity,  and  took  up  the  word: 

"Noble  lady,  whoever  thou  art,  in  thine  old  age,  and  thine 
hour  of  care,  may  thy  child,  like  this  poor  girl,  forsake  all 
gayer  comrades  for  a  parent's  side!" 

The  answer  touched  the  Lady  of  Bonville,  and  involuntarily 
she  extended  her  hand  to  Sibyll.  With  a  swelling  heart. 
Sibyll,  as  proud  as  herself,  bent  silently  over  that  rival's  hand. 
Katherine's  marble  cheek  colored,  as  she  interpreted  the  girl's 
silence. 

"Gentle  sir,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause,  "wilt  thou  per- 
mit me  a  few  words  with  thy  fair  daughter?  And  if  in  aught, 
since  thou  speakest  of  care,  Lord  Warwick's  sister  can  serve 
thee,  prithee  bid  thy  young  maiden  impart  it,  as  to  a  friend." 

"Tell  her,  then,  my  Sibyll — tell  Lord  Warwick's  sister,  to 
ask  the  King  to  give  back  to  Adam  Warner  his  poverty,  his 
labor,  and  his  hope,"  said  the  scholar,  and  his  noble  head  sank 
gloomily  on  his  bosom. 

The  Lady  of  Bonville,  still  holding  Sibyll's  hand,  drew  her 
a  few  paces  up  the  walk,  and  then  she  said  suddenly,  and  with 
some  of  that  blunt  frankness  which  belonged  to  her  great 
brother:  "Maiden,  can  there  be  confidence  between  thee 
and  me?" 

"Of  what  nature,  lady?" 

Again  Katherine  blushed,  but  she  felt  the  small  hand  she 
held  tremble  in  her  clasp,  and  was  emboldened: 

"Maiden,  thou  mayst  resent  and  marvel  at  my  words;  but, 
when  I  had  fewer  years  than  thou,  my  father  said:  'There  are 
many  carks  in  life  which  a  little  truth  could  end.'  So  would  I 
heed  his  lesson.  William  de  Hastings  has  followed  thee  with 
a  homage  that  has  broken,  perchance,  many  as  pure  a  heart — 
nay,  nay,  fair  child,  hear  me  on.  Thou  hast  heard  that  in 
youth  he  wooed  Katherine  Nevile — that  we  loved,  and  were 
severed.  They  who  see  us  now  marvel  whether  we  hate  or 


278  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

love: — no,  not  love — that  question  were  an  insult  to  Lord  Bon- 
ville's  wife.  Ofttimes  we  seem  pitiless  to  each  other — why? 
Lord  Hastings  would  have  wooed  me,  an  English  matron,  to 
forget  mine  honor  and  my  house's.  He  chafes  that  he  move 
me  not.  /  behold  him  debasing  a  great  nature,  to  unworthy 
triflings  with  man's  conscience  and  a  knight's  bright  faith. 
But  mark  me!  The  heart  of  Hastings  is  everlastingly  mine, 
and  mine  alone!  What  seek  I  in  this  confidence?  To  warn 
thee.  Wherefore?  Because  for  months,  amidst  all  the  vices 
of  this  foul  court-air — amidst  the  flatteries  of  the  softest  voice 
that  ever  fell  upon  woman's  ear — amidst,  peradventure,  the 
pleadings  of  thine  own  young  and  guileless  love — thine  inno- 
cence is  unscathed.  And  therefore  Katherine  of  Bonville  may 
be  the  friend  of  Sibyll  Warner." 

However  generous  might  be  the  true  spirit  of  these  words,  it 
was  impossible  that  they  should  not  gall  and  humiliate  the 
young  and  flattered  beauty  to  whom  they  were  addressed. 
They  so  wholly  discarded  all  belief  in  the  affection  of  Hast- 
ings for  Sibyll ;  they  so  haughtily  arrogated  the  mastery  over 
his  heart;  they  so  plainly  implied  that  his  suit  to  the  poor 
maiden  was  but  a  mockery  or  dishonor,  that  they  made  even 
the  praise  for  virtue  an  affront  to  the  delicate  and  chaste  ear 
on  which  they  fell.  And,  therefore,  the  reader  will  not  be 
astonished,  though  the  Lady  of  Bonville  certainly  was,  when 
Sibyll,  drawing  her  hand  from  Katherine's  clasp,  stopping 
short,  and  calmly  folding  her  arms  upon  her  bosom,  said  : 

"To  what  this  tends,  lady,  I  know  not.  The  Lord  Hast- 
ings is  free  to  carry  his  homage  where  he  will.  He  has  sought 
me,  not  I  Lord  Hastings.  And  if  to-morrow  he  offered  me  his 
hand,  I  would  reject  it,  if  I  were  not  convinced  that  the  heart — " 

"Damsel,"  interrupted  the  Lady  Bonville,  in  amazed  con- 
tempt, "the  hand  of  Lord  Hastings!  Look  ye  indeed  so  high, 
or  has  he  so  far  paltered  with  your  credulous  youth  as  to  speak 
to  you,  the  daughter  of  the  alchemist,  of  marriage?  If  so,  poor 
child,  beware!" 

"I  knew  not,"  replied  Sibyll  bitterly,  "that  Sibyll  Warner 
was  more  below  the  state  of  Lord  Hastings,  than  Master  Hast- 
ings was  once  below  the  state  of  Lady  Katherine  Nevile. " 

"Thou  art  distraught  with  thy  self-conceit,"  answered  the 
dame  scornfully;  and,  losing  all  the  compassion  and  friendly 
interest  she  had  before  felt,  "my  rede  is  spoken — reject  it,  if 
thou  wilt,  in  pride.  Rue  thy  folly  thou  wilt  in  shame." 

She  drew  her  wimple  round  her  face  as  she  said  these  words 
and,  gathering  up  her  long  robe,  swept  slowly  on. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  379 

CHAPTER  III. 

WHEREIN    THE    DEMAGOGUE    SEEKS   THE    COURTIER. 

ON  quitting  Adam's  chamber,  Hiiyard  paused  not  till  he 
reached  a  stately  house,  not  far  from  Warwick  Lane,  which 
was  the  residence  of  the  Lord  Montagu. 

That  nobleman  was  employed  in  reading,  or  rather,  in  pon- 
dering over,  two  letters,  with  which  a  courier  from  Calais  had 
just  arrived — the  one  from  the  Archbishop,  the  other  from 
Warwick.  In  these  epistles  were  two  passages,  strangely  con- 
tradictory in  their  counsel.  A  sentence  in  Warwick's  letter 
ran  thus:  "It  hath  reached  me,  that  certain  disaffected  men 
meditate  a  rising  against  the  King,  under  pretext  of  wrongs 
from  the  Queen's  kin.  It  is  even  said  that  our  kinsmen,  Con- 
iers  and  Fit/.hugh,  are  engaged  therein.  Need  I  caution  thee 
to  watch  well  that  they  bring  our  name  into  no  disgrace  or  at- 
taint. We  want  no  aid  to  right  our  own  wrongs ;  and  if  the 
misguided  men  rebel,  Warwick  will  best  punish  Edward,  by 
proving  that  he  is  yet  of  use." 

On  the  other  hand,  thus  wrote  the  prelate: 

"The  King,  wroth  with  my  visit  to  Calais,  has  taken  from 
me  the  Chancellor's  seal.  I  humbly  thank  him,  and  shall  sleep 
the  lighter  for  the  fardel's  loss.  Now,  mark  me,  Montagu: 
our  kinsman,  Lord  Fitzhugh's  son,  and  young  Henry  Nevile, 
aided  by  old  Sir  John  Coniers,  meditate  a  fierce  and  well-timed 
assault  upon  the  Woodvilles.  Do  thou  keep  neuter — neither 
help  nor  frustrate  it.  Howsoever  it  end,  it  will  answer  our 
views,  and  shake  our  enemies." 

Montagu  was  yet  musing  over  these  tidings,  and  marvelling 
that  he  in  England  should  know  less  than  his  brethren  in  Calais 
of  events  so  important,  when  his  page  informed  him  that  a 
stranger,  with  urgent  messages  from  the  north  country,  craved 
an  audience.  Imagining  that  these  messages  would  tend  to 
illustrate  the  communications  just  received,  he  ordered  the  visi- 
tor to  be  admitted. 

He  scarcely  noticed  Hiiyard  on  his  entrance,  and  said 
abruptly:  "Speak  shortly,  friend — I  have  but  little  leisure." 

"And  yet,  Lord  Montagu,  my  business  may  touch  thee 
home!" 

Montagu,  surprised,  gazed  more  attentively  on  his  visitor: 
"Surely,  I  know  thy  face,  friend — we  have  met  before." 

"True;  thou  wert  then  on  thy  way  to  the  More." 


«8o  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"I  remember  me;  and  thou  then  seem'dst,  from  thy 
words,  on  a  still  shorter  road  to  the  gallows." 

"The  tree  is  not  planted,"  said  Robin. carelessly,  "that  will 
serve  for  my  gibbet.  But  were  there  no  words  uttered  by  me 
that  thou  couldst  not  disapprove?  I  spoke  of  lawless  dis- 
orders— of  shameful  malfaisance  throughout  the  land — which 
the  Woodvilles  govern  under  a  lewd  tyrant — " 

"Traitor,  hold!" 

"A  tyrant,"  continued  Robin  (heeding  not  the  interruption 
nor  the  angry  gesture  of  Montagu);  "  A  tyrant  who,  at  this 
moment,  meditates  the  destruction  of  the  house  of  Nevile. 
And  not  contented  with  this  world's  weapons,  palters  with  the 
Evil  One  for  the  snares  and  devilries  of  witchcraft." 

"Hush,  man!  Not  so  loud,"  said  Montagu,  in  an  altered 
voice.  '  'Approach  nearer — nearer  yet.  They  who  talk  of  a 
crowned  king — whose  right  hand  raises  armies,  and  whose  left 
hand  reposes  on  the  block — should  beware  how  they  speak  above 
their  breath.  Witchcraft,  sayest  thou?  Make  thy  meaning 
clear. ' ' 

Here  Robin  detailed,  with  but  little  exaggeration,  the  scene 
he  had  witnessed  in  Friar  Bungey's  chamber — the  waxen  image, 
the  menaces  against  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  the  words  of  the 
friar,  naming  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  as  his  employer.  Mon- 
tagu listened  in  attentive  silence.  Though  not  perfectly  free 
from  the  credulities  of  the  time,  shared  even  by  the  courageous 
heart  of  Edward,  and  the  piercing  intellect  of  Gloucester,  he 
was  yet  more  alarmed  by  such  proofs  of  determined  earthly  hos- 
tility in  one  so  plotting  and  so  near  to  the  throne  as  the  Duch- 
ess of  Bedford,  than  by  all  the  pins  and  needles  that  could  be 
planted  into  the  Earl's  waxen  counterpart — 

"A  devilish  malice,  indeed,"  said  he,  when  Hilyard  had 
concluded;  "and  yet  this  story,  if  thou  wilt  adhere  to  it,  may 
serve  us  well  at  need.  I  thank  thee,  trusty  friend,  for  thy  con- 
fidence, and  beseech  thee  to  come  at  once  with  me  to  the  King. 
There  will  I  denounce  our  foe,  and,  with  thine  evidence,  we 
will  demand  her  banishment." 

"By  your  leave,  not  a  step  will  I  budge,  my  Lord  Montagu," 
quoth  Robin  bluntly.  "I  know  how  these  matters  are  man- 
aged at  court.  The  King  will  patch  up  a  peace  between  the 
Duchess  and  you,  and  chop  off  my  ears  and  nose  as  a  liar  and 
common  scandal-maker.  No,  no;  denounce  the  Duchess  and 
all  the  Woodvilles,  I  will ;  but  it  shall  not  be  in  the  halls  of  the 
Tower,  but  on  the  broad  plains  of  Yorkshire,  with  twenty 
thousand  men  at  my  back." 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  2&I 

"Ha!  thou  a  leader  of  armies — and  for  what  end?  To  de- 
throne the  King?" 

"That  as  it  may  be — but  first  for  injustice  to  the  people;  it 
is  the  people's  rising  that  I  will  head,  and  not  a  faction's. 
Neither  White  Rose  nor  Red  shall  be  on  my  banner,  but  our 
standard  shall  be  the  gory  head  of  the  first  oppressor  we  can 
place  upon  a  pole." 

"What  is  it  the  people,  as  you  word  it,  would  demand?" 

"I  scarce  know  what  we  demand  as  yet — that  must  depend 
upon  how  we  prosper,"  returned  Hilyard,  with  a  bitter  laugh; 
"but  the  rising  will  have  some  good,  if  it  shows  only  to  you 
lords  and  Normans  that  a  Saxon  people  does  exist,  and  will 
turn  when  the  iron  heel  is  upon  its  neck.  We  are  taxed, 
ground,  pillaged,  plundered — sheep,  maintained  to  be  sheared 
for  your  peace,  or  butchered  for  your  war.  And  now  will  we 
have  a  petition  and  a  charter  of  our  own,  Lord  Montagu.  I 
speak  frankly — I  am  in  thy  power — thou  canst  arrest  me — thou 
canst  strike  off  the  head  of  this  revolt.  Thou  art  the  King's 
friend — wilt  thou  do  so?  No,  thou  and  thy  house  have  wrongs 
as  well  as  we,  the  people.  And  a  part  at  least  of  our  demands 
and  our  purpose  is  your  own." 

"What  part,  bold  man?" 

"This:  we  shall  make  our  first  complaint  the  baneful  domi- 
nation of  the  Queen's  family;  and  demand  the  banishment  of 
the  Woodvilles,  root  and  stem." 

"Hem!"  said  Montagu  involuntarily,  glancing  over  the  arch- 
bishop's letter;  "Hem,  but  without  outrage  to  the  King's  state 
and  person?" 

"Oh,  trust  me,  my  lord,  the  franklin's  head  contains  as  much 
north-country  cunning  as  the  noble's.  They  who  would  speed 
well,  must  feel  their  way  cautiously." 

"Twenty  thousand  men — impossible!  Who  art  thou,  to  col- 
lect and  head  them?" 

"Plain  Robin  of  Redesdale." 

"Ha!"  exclaimed  Montagu,  "is  it  indeed,  as  I  wastaughtto 
suspect !  Art  thou  that  bold,  strange,  mad  fellow,  whom,  by 
pike  and  brand — a  soldier's  oath — I  a  soldier,  have  often  longed 
to  see.  Let  me  look  at  thee!  'Fore  St.  George,  a  tall  man, 
and  well  knit,  with  dareiment  in  thy  brow.  Why,  there  are  as 
many  tales  of  thee  in  the  north  as  of  my  brother  the  Earl. 
Some  say  thou  art  a  lord  of  degree  and  birth ;  others  that  thou 
art  the  robber  of  Hexham,  to  whom  Margaret  of  Anjou  trusted 
her  own  life  and  her  son's." 

"Whatever  they  say  of  me,"  returned  Robin,  "they  all  agree 


282  THE    LAST   OF    THE   BARONS. 

in  this,  that  I  am  a  man  of  honest  word,  and  bold  deed ;  that 
I  can  stir  up  the  hearts  of  men,  as  the  wind  stirreth  fire;  that 
I  came  an  unknown  stranger  into  the  parts  where  I  abide,  and 
that  no  peer  in  this  roiaulme,  save  Warwick  himself,  can  do 
more  to  raise  an  army,  or  shake  a  throne." 

"But  by  what  spell?" 

"By  men's  wrongs,  lord,"  answered  Robin,  in  a  deep  voice: 
"and  now,  ere  this  moon  wanes,  Redesdale  is  a  camp!" 

"What  the  immediate  cause  of  complaint?" 

"The  hospital  of  St.  Leonard's  has  compelled  us  unjustly  to 
render  them  a  thrave  of  corn." 

"Thou  art  a  cunning  knave!  Pinch  the  belly  if  you  would 
make  Englishmen  rise." 

"True,"  said  Robin,  smiling  grimly  ;*  "and  now — what  say 
you — will  you  head  us?" 

4 '  Head  you !     No ! ' ' 

"Will  you  betray  us?" 

"It  is  not  easy  to  betray  twenty  thousand  men;  if  ye  rise 
merely  to  free  yourselves  from  a  corn-tax,  and  England  from 
the  Woodvilles,  I  see  no  treason  in  your  revolt." 

"I  understand  you,  Lord  Montagu,"  said  Robin,  with  a 
stern  and  half-scornful  smile;  "you  are  not  above  thriving  by 
our  danger;  but  we  need  now  no  lord  and  baron — we  will 
suffice  for  ourselves.  And  the  hour  will  come,  believe  me, 
when  Lord  Warwick,  pursued  by  the  King,  must  fly  to  the  Com- 
mons. Think  well  of  these  things  and  this  prophecy,  when  the 
news  from  the  north  startles  Edward  of  March  in  the  lap  of  his 
harlots." 

Without  saying  another  word,  he  turned  and  quitted  the 
chamber  as  abruptly  as  he  had  entered. 

Lord  Montagu  was  not,  for  his  age,  a  bad  man ;  though 
worldly,  subtle,  and  designing;  with  some  of  the  craft  of  his 
prelate  brother,  he  united  something  of  the  high  soul  of  his 
brother  soldier.  But  that  age  had  not  the  virtue  of  later  times, 
and  cannot  be  judged  by  its  standard.  He  heard  this  bold 
daredevil  menace  his  country  with  civil  war  upon  grounds  not 
plainly  stated,  nor  clearly  understood — he  aided  not,  but  he 
connived:  "Twenty  thousand  men  in  arms,"  he  muttered  to 
himself — '  'say  half — well,  ten  thousand — not  against  Edward, 
but  the  Woodvilles!  It  must  bring  the  King  to  his  senses: 
must  prove  to  him  how  odious  the  mushroom  race  of  the  Wood- 
villes, and  drive  him  for  safety  and  for  refuge  to  Montagu  and 
Warwick.  If  the  knaves  presume  too  far  (and  Montagu  smiled), 
"what  are  undisciplined  multitudes  to  the  eye  of  a  skilful  cap- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 


tain?     Let  the  storm  blow,  we  will  guide  the  blast.     In  this 
world  man  must  make  use  of  man." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SIBYLL. 

WHILE  Montagu,  in  anxious  forethought,  awaited  the  revolt 
that  Robin  of  Redesdale  had  predicted ;  while  Edward  feasted 
and  laughed,  merry-made  with  his  courtiers,  and  aided  the  con- 
jugal duties  of  his  good  citizens  in  London ;  while  the  Queen 
and  her  father,  Lord  Rivers,  more  and  more  in  the  absence  of 
Warwick,  encroached  on  all  the  good  things  power  can  bestow 
and  avarice  seize:  while  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  and  Friar 
Bungey  toiled  hard  at  the  waxen  effigies  of  the  great  Earl,  who 
still  held  his  royal  son-in-law  in  his  court  at  Calais — the  stream 
of  our  narrative  winds  from  its  noisier  channels,  and  lingers, 
with  a  quiet  wave,  around  the  temple  of  a  virgin's  heart. 
Wherefore  is  Sibyll  sad?  Some  short  months  since,  and  we 
beheld  her  gay  with  hope,  and  basking  in  the  sunny  atmos- 
phere of  pleasure  and  of  love.  The  mind  of  this  girl  was  a 
singular  combination  of  tenderness  and  pride:  the  first  wholly 
natural,  the  last  the  result  of  circumstance  and  position.  She 
was  keenly  conscious  of  her  gentle  birth,  and  her  earlier  pros- 
pects in  the  court  of  Margaret;  and  the  poverty  and  distress 
and  solitude  in  which  she  had  grown  up  from  the  child  into 
the  woman  had  only  served  to  strengthen  what,  in  her  nature, 
was  already  strong,  and  to  heighten  whatever  was  already 
proud.  Ever  in  her  youngest  dreams  of  the  future,  ambition 
had  visibly  blent  itself  with  the  vague  ideas  of  love.  The 
imagined  wooer  was  less  to  be  young  and  fair,  than  renowned 
and  stately.  She  viewed  him  through  the  mists  of  the  future, 
as  the  protector  of  her  persecuted  father ;  as  the  rebuilder  of 
a  fallen  house ;  as  the  ennobler  of  a  humbled  name.  And  from 
the  moment  in  which  her  girl's  heart  beat  at  the  voice  of  Hast- 
ings, the  ideal  of  her  soul  seemed  found.  And  when  trans- 
planted to  the  court,  she  learned  to  judge  of  her  native  grace 
and  loveliness  by  the  common  admiration  they  excited,  her 
hopes  grew  justified  to  her  inexperienced  reason.  Often  and 
ever  the  words  of  Hastings,  at  the  house  of  the  Lady  Longue- 
ville,  rang  in  her  ear,  and  thrilled  through  the  solitude  of  night: 
"Whoever  is  fair  and  chaste,  gentle  and  loving,  is,  in  the  eyes 
of  William  de  Hastings,  the  mate  and  equal  of  a  king."  In 
visits  that  she  had  found  opportunity  to  make  to  the  Lady 


284  THE   LAST   OF    THE   BARONS. 

Longueville,  these  hopes  were  duly  fed;  for  the  old  Lancastrian 
detested  the  Lady  Bonville,  as  Lord  Warwick's  sister,  and  she 
would  have  reconciled  her  pride  to  view  with  complacency  his 
alliance  with  the  alchemist's  daughter,  if  it  led  to  his  estrange- 
ment from  the  memory  of  his  first  love;  and,  therefore,  when 
her  quick  eye  penetrated  the  secret  of  Sibyll's  heart,  and  when 
she  witnessed — for  Hastings  often  encountered  (and  seemed  to 
seek  the  encounter)  the  young  maid  at  Lady  Longueville's 
house — the  unconcealed  admiration  which  justified  Sibyll  in 
her  high-placed  affection,  she  scrupled  not  to  encourage  the 
blushing  girl,  by  predictions  in  which  she  forced  her  own  better 
judgment  to  believe.  Nor,  when  she  learned  Sibyll's  descent 
from  a  family  that  had  once  ranked  as  high  as  that  of  Hastings, 
would  she  allow  that  there  was  any  disparity  in  the  alliance 
she  foretold.  But  more,  far  more  than  Lady  Longueville's 
assurances,  did  the  delicate  and  unceasing  gallantries  of  Hast- 
ings himself  flatter  the  fond  faith  of  Sibyll.  True,  that  he 
spoke  not  actually  of  love,  but  every  look  implied,  every  whis- 
per seemed  to  betray  it.  And  to  her  he  spoke  as  to  an  equal, 
not  in  birth  alone,  but  in  mind;  so  superior  was  she  in  culture, 
in  natural  gifts,  and,  above  all,  in  that  train  of  high  thought 
and  elevated  sentiment,  in  which  genius  ever  finds  a  sympathy, 
to  the  court-flutterers  of  her  sex,  that  Hastings,  whether  or  not 
he  cherished  a  warmer  feeling,  might  well  take  pleasure  in  her 
converse,  and  feel  the  lovely  infant  worthy  the  wise  man's  trust. 
He  spoke  to  her  without  reserve  of  the  Lady  Bonville,  and  he 
spoke  with  bitterness.  "I  loved  her,"  he  said,  "as  woman  is 
rarely  loved.  She  deserted  me  for  another — rather  should  she 
have  gone  to  the  convent  than  the  altar;  and  now,  forsooth, 
she  deems  she  hath  the  right  to  taunt  and  to  rate  me;  to  dictate 
to  me  the  way  I  should  walk,  and  to  flaunt  the  honors  I  have 
won." 

"May  that  be  no  sign  of  a  yet  tender  interest?"  said  Sibyll 
timidly. 

The  eyes  of  Hastings  sparkled  for  a  moment,  but  the  gleam 
vanished.  "Nay,  you  know  her  not.  Her  heart  is  marble,  as 
hard  and  as  cold.  Her  very  virtue  but  the  absence  of  emo- 
tion— I  would  say,  of  gentler  emotion — for,  pardieu,  such 
emotions  as  come  from  ire  and  scorn  are  the  daily  growth  of 
that  stern  soil.  Oh, happy  was  my  escape! — happy  the  deser- 
tion, which  my  young  folly  deemed  a  curse.  No!"  he  added 
with  a  sarcastic  quiver  of  his  lip;  "No;  what  stings  and  galls 
the  Lady  of  Harrington  and  Bonville — what  makes  her  counte- 
nance change  'in  my  presence,  and  her  voice  sharpen  at  my 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  285 

accost,  is  plainly  this:  in  wedding  her  dull  lord,  and  rejecting 
me,  Katherine  Nevile  deemed  she  wedded  power,  and  rank, 
and  station:  and  now,  while  we  are  both  young,  how  proves 
her  choice?  The  Lord  of  Harrington  and  Bonville  is  so  noted 
a  dolt  that  even  the  Neviles  cannot  help  him  to  rise — the 
meanest  office  is  above  his  mind's  level;  and,  dragged  down 
by  the  heavy  clay  to  which  her  wings  are  yoked,  Katherine, 
Lady  of  Harrington  and  Bonville — oh,  give  her  her  due  titles! — 
is  but  a  pageant  figure  in  the  court.  If  the  war-trump  blew, 
his  very  vassals  would  laugh  at  a  Bonville's  banner,  and  be- 
neath the  flag  of  poor  William  Hastings  would  gladly  march 
the  best  chivalry  of  the  land.  And  this  it  is,  I  say,  that  galls 
her.  For  evermore  she  is  driven  to  compare  the  state  she 
holds,  as  the  dame  of  the  accepted  Bonville,  with  that  she  lost 
as  the  wife  of  the  disdained  Hastings." 

And  if,  in  the  heat  and  passion  that  such  words  betrayed, 
Sibyll  sighed  to  think  that  something  of  the  old  remembrance 
yet  swelled  and  burned,  they  but  impressed  her  more  with  the 
value  of  a  heart  in  which  the  characters  once  writ  endured  so 
long,  and  roused  her  to  a  tender  ambition  to  heal  and  to  con- 
sole. 

Then  looking  into  her  own  deep  soul,  Sibyll  beheld  there  a 
fund  of  such  generous,  pure,  and  noble  affection — such  rever- 
ence as  to  the  fame,  such  love  as  to  the  man — that  she  proudly 
felt  herself  worthier  of  Hastings  than  the  haughty  Katherine. 
She  entered  then,  as  it  were,  the  lists  with  this  rival — a  memory 
rather,  so  she  thought,  than  a  corporeal  being;  and  her  eye 
grew  brighter,  her  step  statelier,  in  the  excitement  of  the  con- 
test, the  anticipation  of  the  triumph.  For,  what  diamond 
without  its  flaw?  what  rose  without  its  canker?  And  bedded 
deep  in  that  exquisite  and  charming  nature  lay  the  dangerous 
and  fatal  weakness  which  has  cursed  so  many  victims,  broken 
so  many  hearts — the  vanity  of  the  sex.  We  may  now  readily 
conceive  how  little  predisposed  was  Sibyll  to  the  blunt  advances 
and  displeasing  warnings  of  the  Lady  Bonville,  and  the  more 
so  from  the  time  in  which  they  chanced.  For  here  comes  the 
answer  to  the  question,  "Why  was  Sibyll  sad?" 

The  reader  may  determine  for  himself  what  were  the  ruling 
motives  of  Lord  Hastings  in  the  court  he  paid  to  Sibyll. 
Whether  to  pique  the  Lady  Bonville  and  force  upon  her  the 
jealous  pain  he  restlessly  sought  to  inflict;  whether,  from  the 
habit  of  his  careless  life,  seeking  the  pleasure  of  the  moment, 
with  little  forethought  of  the  future,  and  reconciling  itself  to 
much  cruelty,  by  that  profound  contempt  for  human  beings, 


286  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

man,  and  still  more  for  woman,  which  sad  experience  often 
brings  to  acute  intellect;  or  whether,  from  the  purer  and  holier 
complacency  with  which  one,  whose  youth  has  fed  upon  nobler 
aspirations  than  manhood  cares  to  pursue,  suns  itself  back  to 
something  of  its  earlier  lustre  in  the  presence  and  the  converse 
of  a  young  bright  soul — whatever,  in  brief,  the  earlier  motives 
of  gallantries  to  Sibyll,  once  begun,  constantly  renewed,  by 
degrees  wilder,  and  warmer,  and  guiltier  emotions,  roused  up 
in  the  universal  and  all-conquering  lover  the  vice  of  his  softer 
nature.  When  calm  and  unimpassioned,  his  conscience  had 
said  to  him:  "Thou  shalt  spare  that  flower."  But  when  once 
the  passion  was  roused  within  him,  the  purity  of  the  flower  was 
forgotten  in  the  breath  of  its  voluptuous  sweetness. 

And  but  three  days  before  the  scene  we  have  described  with 
Katherine,  Sibyll's  fabric  of  hope  fell  to  the  dust.  For  Hast- 
ings spoke  for  the  first  time  of  love — for  the  first  time  knelt  at 
her  feet — for  the  first  time,  clasping  to  his  heart  that  virgin 
hand,  poured  forth  the  protestation  and  the  vow.  And  oh! 
woe — woe !  for  the  first  time  she  learned  how  cheaply  the  great 
man  held  the  poor  maiden's  love ;  how  little  he  deemed  that 
purity  and  genius  and  affection  equalled  the  possessor  of  fame 
and  wealth  and  power;  for  plainly  visible,  boldly  shown  and 
spoken,  the  love  that  she  had  foreseen  as  a  glory  from  the 
Heaven  sought  but  to  humble  her  to  the  dust. 

The  anguish  of  that  moment  was  unspeakable — and  she 
spoke  it  not.  But  as  she  broke  from  the  profaning  clasp,  as 
escaping  to  the  threshold  she  cast  on  the  unworthy  wooer  one 
look  of  such  reproachful  sorrow,  as  told  at  once  all  her  love 
and  all  her  horror — the  first  act  in  the  eternal  tragedy  of  man's 
wrong  and  woman's  grief  was  closed.  And  therefore  was 
Sibyll  sad ! 

CHAPTER  V. 

KATHERINE. 

FOR  several  days  Hastings  avoided  Sibyll ;  in  truth,  he  felt 
remorse  for  his  design,  and  in  his  various,  active,  and  brilliant 
life  he  had  not  the  leisure  for  obstinate  and  systematic  siege  to 
a  single  virtue,  nor  was  he,  perhaps,  any  longer  capable  of  deep 
and  enduring  passion ;  his  heart,  like  that  of  many  a  chevalier 
in  the  earlier  day,  had  lavished  itself  upon  one  object,  and  sul- 
lenly, upon  regrets  and  dreams,  and  vain  anger  and  idle  scorn, 
it  had  exhausted  those  sentiments  which  make  the  sum  of  true 
Jove,  And  so,  like  Petrarch,  whom  his  taste  and  fancy  wor- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  287 

shipped,  and  many  another  votary  of  the  gentil  Dieu,  while 
his  imagination  devoted  itself  to  the  chaste  and  distant  ideal — 
the  spiritual  Laura — his  senses,  ever  vagrant  and  disengaged, 
settled,  without  scruple,  upon  the  thousand  Cynthias  of  the 
minute.  But  then  those  Cynthias  were,  for  the  most  part,  and 
especially  of  late  years,  easy  and  light-won  nymphs:  their 
coyest  were  of  another  clay  from  the  tender  but  lofty  Sibyll. 
And  Hastings  shrunk  from  the  cold-blooded  and  deliberate 
seduction  of  one  so  pure,  while  he  could  not  reconcile  his  mind 
to  contemplate  marriage  with  a  girl  who  could  give  nothing  to 
his  ambition ;  and  yet  it  was  not,  in  this  last  reluctance,  only 
his  ambition  that  startled  and  recoiled.  In  that  strange  tyranny 
over  his  whole  soul  which  Katherine  Bonville  secretly  exercised, 
he  did  not  dare  to  place  a  new  barrier  evermore  between  her 
and  himself.  The  Lord  Bonville  was  of  infirm  health ;  he  had 
been  more  than  once  near  to  death's  door,  and  Hastings,  in 
every  succeeding  fancy  that  beguiled  his  path,  recalled  the 
thrill  of  his  heart,  when  it  had  whispered:  "Katherine,  the 
loved  of  thy  youth,  may  yet  be  thine ! ' '  And  then  that  Kather- 
ine rose  before  him,  not  as  she  now  swept  the  earth,  with 
haughty  step,  and  frigid  eye,  and  disdainful  lip,  but  as — in  all 
her  bloom  of  maiden  beauty,  before  the  temper  was  soured,  or 
the  pride  aroused — she  had  met  him  in  the  summer  twilight  by 
the  trysting  tree ;  broken  with  him  the  golden  ring  of  faith, 
and  wept  upon  his  bosom. 

And  yet,  during  his  brief  and  self-inflicted  absence  from 
Sibyll,  this  wayward  and  singular  personage,  who  was  never 
weak  but  to  women,  and  ever  weak  to  them,  felt  that  she  had 
made  herself  far  dearer  to  him  than  he  had  at  first  supposed  it 
possible.  He  missed  that  face,  ever,  till  the  last  interview,  so 
confiding  in  the  unconsciously  betrayed  affection.  He  felt 
how  superior  in  sweetness,  and  yet  in  intellect,  Sibyll  was  to 
Katherine ;  there  was  more  in  common  between  her  mind  and 
his  in  all  things,  save  one.  But  oh,  that  one  exception  ! — what 
a  world  lies  within  it — the  memory  of  the  spring  of  life !  In 
fact,  though  Hastings  knew  it  not,  he  was  in  love  with  two 
objects  at  once ;  the  one,  a  chimera,  a  fancy,  an  ideal,  an 
Eidolon,  under  the  name  of  Katherine ;  the  other,  youth,  and 
freshness,  and  mind,  and  heart,  and  a  living  shape  of  beauty, 
under  the  name  of  Sibyll..  Often  does  this  double  love  happen 
to  men;  but  when  it  does,  alas  for  the  human  object!  for  the 
shadowy  and  the  spiritual  one  is  immortal — until,  indeed,  it  be 
possessed! 

It  might  be,  perhaps,  with  a  resolute  desire  to  conquer  the 


288  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

new  love  and  confirm  the  old,  that  Hastings,  one  morning,  re 
paired  to  the  house  of  the  Lady  Bonville,  for  her  visit  to  the 
court  had  expired.     It  was  a  large  mansion  without  the  Lud 
Gate. 

He  found  the  dame  in  a  comely  chamber,  seated  in  the  sole 
chair  the  room  contained,  to  which  was  attached  a  foot-board 
that  served  as  a  dais,  while  around  her,  on  low  stools,  sate — 
some  spinning,  others  broidering — some  ten  or  twelve  young 
maidens  of  good  family,  sent  to  receive  their  nurturing  under 
the  high-born  Katherine,*  while  two  other  and  somewhat  elder 
virgins  sate  a  little  apart,  but  close  under  the  eye  of  the  lady, 
practising  the  courtly  game  of  "prime,"  for  the  diversion  of 
cards  was  in  its  zenith  of  fashion  under  Edward  IV.,  and  even 
half  a  century  later  was  considered  one  of  the  essential  accom- 
plishments of  a  well-educated  young  lady.f  The  exceeding 
stiffness,  the  solemn  silence  of  this  female  circle,  but  little 
accorded  with  the  mood  of  the  graceful  visitor.  The  demoi- 
selles stirred  not  at  his  entrance,  and  Katherine  quietly  mo- 
tioned him  to  a  seat  at  some  distance. 

"By  your  leave,  fair  lady,"  said  Hastings,  "I  rebel  against 
so  distant  an  exile  from  such  sweet  company" ;  and  he  moved 
the  tabouret  close  to  the  formidable  chair  of  the  presiding 
chieftainess. 

Katherine  smiled  faintly,  but  not  in  displeasure. 

"So  gay  a  presence,"  she  said,  "must,  I  fear  me,  a  little 
disturb  these  learners." 

Hastings  glanced  at  the  prim  demureness  written  on  each 
blooming  visage,  and  replied : 

"You  wrong  their  ardor  in  such  noble  studies.  I  would 
wager  that  nothing  less  than  my  entering  your  bower  on  horse- 
back, with  helm  on  head  and  lance  in  rest,  could  provoke  even 
a  smile  from  one  pair  of  the  twenty  rosy  lips  round  which, 
methinks,  I  behold  Cupido  hovering  in  vain!" 

The  Baroness  bent  her  stately  brows,  and  the  twenty  rosy 
lips  were  all  tightly  pursed  up,  to  prevent  the  indecorous  exhi- 
bition which  the  wicked  courtier  had  provoked.  But  it  would 
not  do :  one  and  all  the  twenty  lips  broke  into  a  smile — but  a 
smile  so  tortured,  constrained,  and  nipped  in  the  bud,  that  it 

*  And  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  modern  notions,  the  highest  lady  who  received  such 
pensioners  accepted  a  befitting  salary  for  their  board  and  education. 

t  So  the  Princess  Margaret,  daughter  of  Henry  VII.,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  exhibits  her 
skill,  in  prime  or  trump,  to  her  betrothed  husband,  James  IV.  of  Scotland  ;  so,  among  the 
womanly  arts  of  the  unhappy  Katherine  of  Arragon,  it  is  mentioned  that  she  could  play  at 
"cardis  and  dyce."  (See  Strutt's  "  Games  and  Pastimes,"  Hone's  edition,  p.  327.)  The 
legislature  was  very  anxious  to  keep  these  games  sacred  to  the  aristocracy,  and  very  wroth 
With  'prentices  and  the  vulgar  for  imitating  the  ruinous  amusements  of  their  better*, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  289 

only  gave  an  expression  of  pain  to  the  features  it  was  forbidden 
to  enliven. 

"And  what  brings  the  Lord  Hastings  hither?"  asked  the 
Baroness,  in  a  formal  tone. 

"Can  you  never  allow  for  motive  the  desire  of  pleasure,  fair 
dame?" 

That  peculiar  and  exquisite  blush  which  at  moments  changed 
the  whole  physiognomy  of  Katherine,  flitted  across  her  smooth 
cheek,  and  vanished.  She  said  gravely: 

"So  much  do  I  allow  it  in  you,  my  lord,  that  hence  my 
question." 

"Katherine!"  exclaimed  Hastings,  in  a  voice  of  tender  re- 
proach, and  attempting  to  seize  her  hand,  forgetful  of  all  other 
presence  save  that  to  which  the  blush,  that  spoke  of  old,  gave 
back  the  ancient  charm. 

Katherine  cast  a  hurried  and  startled  glance  over  the  maiden 
group,  and  her  eye  detected  on  the  automaton  faces  one  com- 
mon expression  of  surprise.  Humbled  and  deeply  displeased, 
she  rose  from  the  awful  chair,  and  then,  as  suddenly  reseating 
herself,  she  said,  with  a  voice  and  lip  of  the  most  cutting  irony: 
"My  lord  chamberlain  is,  it  seems,  so  habituated  to  lackey  his 
King  amidst  the  goldsmiths  and  grocers,  that  he  forgets  the 
form  of  language  and  respect  of  bearing  which  a  noblewoman 
of  repute  is  accustomed  to  consider  seemly." 

Hastings  bit  his  lip,  and  his  falcon  eye  shot  indignant  fire. 
"Pardon,  my  Lady  of  Bonville  and  Harrington,  I  did  indeed 
forget  what  reasons  the  dame  of  so  wise  and  so  renowned  a 
lord  hath  to  feel  pride  in  the  title  she  hath  won.  But  I  see 
that  my  visit  hath  chanced  out  of  season.  My  business,  in 
truth,  was  rather  with  my  lord,  whose  counsel  in  peace  is  as 
famous  as  his  truncheon  in  war!" 

"It  is  enough,"  replied  Katherine,  with  a  dignity  that  re- 
buked the  taunt,  "that  Lord  Bonville  has  the  name  of  an  honest 
man — who  never  rose  at  court." 

"Woman,  without  one  soft  woman-feeling!"  muttered  Hast- 
ings, between  his  ground  teeth,  as  he  approached  the  lady  and 
made  his  profound  obeisance.  The  words  were  intended  only 
for  Katherine's  ear,  and  they  reached  it.  Her  bosom  swelled 
beneath  the  brocaded  gorget,  and  when  the  door  closed  on 
Hastings,  she  pressed  her  hands  convulsively  together,  and  her 
dark  eyes  were  raised  upward. 

"My  child,  thou  art  entangling  thy  skein,"  said  the  Lady 
of  Bonville,  as  she  passed  one  of  the  maidens,  towards  the 
casement,  which  she  opened — "The air  to-day  weighs  heavily!" 


290  Mli      LAST    OK     llti      I.ARONS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

JOY  FOR  ADAM,  AND   HOPE  FOR  SIBYLL — AND  POPULAR  FRIAR 

BUNGEY! 

LEAPING  on  his  palfrey,  Hastings  rode  back  to  the  Tower, 
dismounted  at  the  gate,  passed  on  to  the  little  postern  in  the 
inner  court,  and  paused  not  till  he  was  in  Warner's  room. 

"How  now,  friend  Adam?     Thou  art  idle." 

"Lord  Hastings,  I  am  ill." 

"And  thy  child  not  with  thee?" 

"She  is  gone  to  her  Grace  the  Duchess,  to  pray  her  to  grant 
me  leave  to  go  home  and  waste  no  more  life  on  making  gold." 

"Home!  Go  hence!  We  cannot  hear  it!  The  Duchess 
must  not  grant  it.  I  will  not  suffer  the  King  to  lose  so  learned 
a  philosopher. 

"Then  pray  the  King  to  let  the  philosopher  achieve  that  which 
is  in  the  power  of  labor."  He  pointed  to  the  Eureka.  "Let 
me  be  heard  in  the  King's  council,  and  prove  to  sufficing  judges 
what  this  iron  can  do  for  England." 

"Is  that  all?  So  be  it.  I  will  speak  to  his  Highness  forth- 
with. But  promise  that  thou  wilt  think  no  more  of  leaving  the 
King's  palace." 

"Oh,  no,  no!  If  I  may  enter  again  into  mine  own  palace — 
mine  own  royalty  of  craft  and  hope — the  'court  or  the  dungeon 
all  one  to  me!" 

"Father,"  said  Sibyll,  entering,  "be  comforted.  The 
Duchess  forbids  thy  departure,  but  we  will  yet  flee — " 

She  stopped  short  as  she  saw  Hastings.  He  approached  her 
timidly,  and  with  so  repentant,  so  earnest  a  respect  in  his  mien 
and  gesture,  that  she  had  not  the  heart  to  draw  back  the  fair 
hand  he  lifted  to  his  lips. 

"No,  flee  not,  sweet  donzell;  leave  not  the  desert  court  with- 
out the  flower  and  the  laurel,  the  beauty  and  the  wisdom,  that 
scent  the  hour,  and  foretype  eternity.  I  have  conferred  with 
thy  father — I  will  obtain  his  prayer  from  the  King.  His  mind 
shall  be  free  to  follow  its  own  impulse,  and  thou  (he  whis- 
pered)— pardon — pardon  an  offence  of  too  much  love.  Never 
shall  it  wound  again." 

Her  eyes,  swimming  with  delicious  tears,  were  fixed  upon 
the  floor.  Poor  child!  with  so  much  love,  how  could  she 
cherish  anger?  With  so  much  purity,  how  distrust  herself? 
And  while,  at  least,  he  spoke,  the  dangerous  lover  was  sincere. 
So  from  that  hour  peace  was  renewed  between  Sibyll  and  Lord 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  291 

Hastings.  Fatal  peace !  alas  for  the  girl  who  loves — and  has 
no  mother! 

True  to  his  word,  the  courtier  braved  the  displeasure  of  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford,  in  inducing  the  King  to  consider  the  ex- 
pediency of  permitting  Adam  to  relinquish  alchemy,  and  repair 
his  model.  Edward  summoned  a  deputation  from  the  London 
merchants  and  traders,  before  whom  Adam  appeared,  and  ex- 
plained his  device.  But  these  practical  men  at  first  ridiculed 
the  notion  as  a  madman's  fancy,  and  it  required  all  the  art 
of  Hastings  to  overcome  their  contempt,  and  appeal  to  the 
native  acuteness  of  the  King.  Edward,  however,  was  only 
caught  by  Adam's  incidental  allusions  to  the  application  of  his 
principle  to  ships.  The  Merchant- King  suddenly  roused  him- 
self to  attention,  when  it  was  promised  to  him  that  his  galleys 
could  cross  the  seas  without  sail,  and  against  wind  and  tide. 

"By  St.  George!"  said  he  then,  "let  the  honest  man  have  his 
whim.  Mend  thy  model,  and  every  saint  in  the  calendar  speed 
thee!  Master  Heyford,  tell  thy  comely  wife  that  I  and  Hast- 
ings will  sup  with  her  to-morrow,  for  her  hippocras  is  a  rare 
dainty.  Good-day  to  you,  worshipful  my  masters.  Hastings, 
come  hither — enough  of  these  trifles — I  must  confer  with  thee 
on  matters  really  pressing — this  damnable  marriage  of  gentle 
Georgie's!" 

And  now  Adam  Warner  was  restored  to  his  native  element 
of  thought;  now  the  crucible  was  at  rest,  and  the  Eureka  be- 
gan to  rise  from  its  ruins.  He  knew  not  the  hate  that  he  had 
acquired,  in  the  permission  he  had  gained;  for  the  London 
deputies,  on  their  return  home,  talked  of  nothing  else  for  a 
whole  week  but  the  favor  the  King  had  shown  to  a  strange 
man,  half-maniac,  half-conjuror,  who  had  undertaken  to  devise 
a  something  which  would  throw  all  the  artisans  and  journey- 
men out  of  work !  From  merchant  to  mechanic  travelled  the 
news,  and  many  an  honest  man  cursed  the  great  scholar,  as  he 
looked  at  his  young  children,  and  wished  to  have  one  good 
blow  at  the  head  that  was  hatching  such  devilish  malice  against 
the  poor !  The  name  of  Adam  Warner  became  a  byword  of 
scorn  and  horror.  Nothing  less  than  the  deep  ditch  and  strong 
walls  of  the  Tower  could  have  saved  him  from  the  popular  in- 
dignation ;  and  these  prejudices  were  skilfully  fed  by  the  jeal- 
ous enmity  of  his  fellow-student,  the  terrible  Friar  Bungey. 
This  man,  though  in  all  matters  of  true  learning  and  science 
worthy  the  utmost  contempt  Adam  could  heap  upon  him,  was 
by  no  means  of  despicable  abilities  in  the  arts  of  imposing  upon 
men.  In  nis  youth  he  had  been  an  itinerant  mountebank,  or, 


292  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

as  it  was  called,  tregetour.  He  knew  well  all  the  curious  tricks 
of  juggling  that  then  amazed  the  vulgar,  and,  we  fear,  are  lost 
to  the  craft  of  our  modern  necromancers.  He  could  clothe  a 
wall  with  seeming  vines,  that  vanished  as  you  approached;  he 
could  conjure  up  in  his  quiet  cell  the  likeness  of  a  castle  manned 
with  soldiers,  or  a  forest  tenanted  by  deer.*  Besides  these 
illusions,  probably  produced  by  more  powerful  magic  lanterns 
than  are  now  used,  the  friar  had  stumbled  upon  the  wondrous 
effects  of  animal  magnetism,  which  was  then  unconsciously 
practised  by  the  alchemists  and  cultivators  of  white  or  sacred 
magic.  He  was  an  adept  in  the  craft  of  fortune-telling:  and 
his  intimate  acquaintance  with  all  noted  characters  in  the  me- 
tropolis, their  previous  history,  and  present  circumstances,  en- 
abled his  natural  shrewdness  to  hit  the  mark,  at  least,  now  and 
then,  in  his  oracular  predictions.  He  had  taken  for  safety  and 
for  bread  the  friar's  robes,  and  had  long  enjoyed  the  confi- 
dence of  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  the  traditional  descendant 
of  the  serpent-witch,  Melusina.  Moreover,  and  in  this  the  friar 
especially  valued  himself,  Bungey  had,  in  the  course  of  his 
hardy,  vagrant,  early  life,  studied,  as  shepherds  and  mariners 
do  now,  the  signs  of  the  weather,  and  as  weather-glasses  were 
then  unknown,  nothing  could  be  more  convenient  to  the  royal 
planners  of  a  summer  chase  or  a  hawking  company  than  the 
neighborhood  of  a  skilful  predictor  of  storm  and  sunshine.  In 
fact,  there  was  no  part  in  the  lore  of  magic  which  the  popular 
seers  found  so  useful  and  studied  so  much  as  that  which  en- 
abled them  to  prognosticate  the  humors  of  the  sky,  at  a  period 
when  the  lives  of  all  men  were  principally  spent  in  the 
open  air. 

The  fame  of  Friar  Bungey  had  travelled  much  farther  than 
the  repute  of  Adam  Warner:  it  was  known  in  the  distant 
provinces ;  and  many  a  northern  peasant  grew  pale  as  he  re- 
lated to  his  gaping  listeners  the  tales  he  had  heard  of  the 
Duchess  Jacquetta's  dread  magician. 

And  yet,  though  the  friar  was  an  atrocious  knave,  and  a  ludi- 
crous impostor,  on  the  whole  he  was  by  no  means  unpopular, 
especially  in  the  metropolis,  for  he  was  naturally  a  jolly,  social 
fellow :  he  often  ventured  boldly  forth  into  the  different  hostelries 
and  reunions  of  the  populace,  and  enjoyed  the  admiration  he 
there  excited,  and  pocketed  the  groats  he  there  collected. 
He  had  no  pride — none  in  the  least,  this  Friar  Bungey! — and 

*  See  Chaucer,  "  House  of  Time,"  book  iii.  ;  also  the  account  given  by  Baptista  Porte 
of  his  own  Magical  Delusions,  of  which  an  extract  may  be  seen  in  the  "  Curiosities  of  Lit- 
erature," Art.  Dreamt  at  thf  Dawn  of  Philosophy. 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  203 

was  as  affable  as  a  magician  could  be  to  the  meanest  mechanic 
who  crossed  his  broad  horn  palm.  A  vulgar  man  is  never  un- 
popular with  the  vulgar.  Moreover,  the  friar,  who  was  a  very 
cunning  person,  wished  to  keep  well  with  the  mob:  he  was 
fond  of  his  own  impudent,  cheating,  burly  carcase,  and  had 
the  prudence  to  foresee  that  a  time  might  come  when  his  royal 
patrons  might  forsake  him,  and  a  mob  might  be  a  terrible  mon- 
ster to  meet  in  his  path ;  therefore  he  always  affected  to  love 
the  poor;  often  told  their  fortunes  gratis;  now  and  then  gave 
them  something  to  drink,  and  was  esteemed  a  man  exceedingly 
good-natured,  because  he  did  not  always  have  the  devil  at  his 
back. 

Now  Friar  Bungey  had,  naturally  enough,  evinced  from  the 
first  a  great  distaste  and  jealousy  of  Adam  Warner;  but  oc- 
casionally profiting  by  the  science  of  the  latter,  he  suffered  his 
resentment  to  sleep  latent  till  it  was  roused  into  fury  by  learn- 
ing the  express  favor  shown  to  Adam  by  the  King,  and  the 
marvellous  results  expected  from  his  contrivance.  His  envy, 
then,  forbade  all  tolerance  and  mercy ;  the  world  was  not  large 
enough  to  contain  two  such  giants — Bungey  and  Warner — the 
genius  and  the  quack.  To  the  best  of  our  experience,  the 
quacks  have  the  same  creed  to  our  own  day.  He  vowed  deep 
vengeance  upon  his  associate,  and  spared  no  arts  to  foment  the 
popular  hatred  against  him.  Friar  Bungey  would  have  been 
a  great  critic  in  our  day ! 

But  besides  his  jealousy,  the  fat  friar  had  another  motive  for 
desiring  poor  Adam's  destruction;  he  coveted  his  model! 
True,  he  despised  the  model ;  he  jeered  the  model ;  he  abhorred 
the  model;  but,  nevertheless,  for  the  model  every  string  in  his 
bowels  fondly  yearned.  He  believed  that  if  that  model  were 
once  repaired,  and  in  his  possession,  he  could  do — what  he 
knew  not — but  certainly  all  that  was  wanting  to  complete  his 
glory,  and  to  bubble  the  public. 

Unconscious  of  all  that  was  at  work  against  him,  Adam  threw 
his  whole  heart  and  soul  into  his  labor,  and,  happy  in  his  happi- 
ness, Sibyll  once  more  smiled  gratefully  upon  Hastings,  from 
whom  the  rapture  came. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

A  LOVE  SCENE. 

More  than  ever  chafed  against  Katherine,  Hastings  sur- 
rendered himself  without  reserve  to  the  charm  he  found  in  the 
society  of  Sibyll.  Her  confidence  being  again  restored,  again 


294  THE   LART   OF   THE    BARONS. 

her  mind  showed  itself  to  advantage,  and  the  more  because  hei 
pride  was  farther  roused,  to  assert  the  equality  with  rank  and 
gold  which  she  took  from  nature  and  from  God. 

It  so  often  happens  that  the  first  love  of  woman  is  ac- 
companied with  a  bashful  timidity  which  overcomes  the  effort, 
while  it  increases  the  desire,  to  shine,  that  the  union  of  love 
and  timidity  has  been  called  inseparable,  in  the  hackneyed 
language  of  every  love-tale.  But  this  is  no  invariable  rule,  as 
Shakspeare  has  shown  us  in  the  artless  Miranda,  in  the  elo- 
quent Juliet,  in  the  frank  and  healthful  Rosalind ;  and  the  love 
of  Sibyll  was  no  common  girl's  spring  fever  of  sighs  and  blushes. 
It  lay  in  the  mind,  the  imagination,  the  intelligence,  as  well  as 
in  the  heart  and  fancy.  It  was  a  breeze  that  stirred  from  the 
modest  leaves  of  the  rose  all  their  divinest  odor.  It  was  impos- 
sible but  what  this  strong,  fresh,  young  nature,  with  its  free 
gayety  when  happy,  its  earnest  pathos  when  sad,  its  various 
faculties  of  judgment  and  sentiment,  and  covert  play  of  inno- 
cent wit,  should  not  contrast  forcibly,  in  the  mind  of  a  man 
who  had  the  want  to  be  amused  and  interested,  with  the  cold 
pride  of  Katherine,  the  dull  atmosphere  in  which  her  stiff,  un- 
bending virtue  breathed  unintellectual  air,  and  still  more  with 
the  dressed  puppets,  with  painted  cheeks  and  barren  talk,  who 
filled  up  the  common  world,  under  the  name  of  women. 

His  feelings  for  Sibyll,  therefore,  took  a  more  grave  and  re- 
spectful color,  and  his  attentions,  if  gallant  ever,  were  those  of 
a  man  wooing  one  whom  he  would  make  his  wife,  and  study- 
ing the  qualities  in  which  he  was  disposed  to  intrust  his  happi- 
ness; and  so  pure  was  Sibyll's  affection,  that  she  could  have 
been  contented  to  have  lived  forever  thus — have  seen  and 
heard  him  daily — have  talked  but  the  words  of  friendship, 
though  with  the  thoughts  of  love ;  for  some  passions  refine 
themselves  through  the  very  fire  of  the  imagination  into  which 
these  senses  are  absorbed,  and  by  the  ideal  purification  ele- 
vated up  to  spirit.  Wrapped  in  the  exquisite  happiness  she  now 
enjoyed,  Sibyll  perceived  not,  or,  if  perceiving,  scarcely  heeded 
that  the  admirers,  who  had  before  fluttered  round  her,  gradu 
ally  dropped  off;  that  the  ladies  of  the  court,  the  damsels 
who  shared  her  light  duties,  grew  distant  and  silent  at  her  ap- 
proach; that  strange  looks  were  bent  on  her;  that  sometimes, 
when  she  and  Hastings  were  seen  together,  the  stern  frowned 
and  the  godly  crossed  themselves. 

The  popular  prejudices  had  reacted  on  the  court.  The  wiz- 
ard's daughter  was  held  to  share  the  gifts  of  her  sire,  and  the 
fascination  of  beauty  was  imputed  to  evil  spells.  Lord  Hast- 


THE   LAST    OF   THE   BARONS.  295 

ings  was  regarded,  especially  by  all  the  ladies  he  had  once 
courted  and  forsaken,  as  a  man  egregiously  bewitched! 

One  day  it  chanced  that  Sibyll  encountered  Hastings  in  the 
walk  that  girded  the  ramparts  of  the  Tower.  He  was  pacing 
musingly,  with  folded  arms,  when  he  raised  his  eyes  and 
beheld  her. 

"And  whither  go  you  thus  alone,  fair  mistress?" 

"The  Duchess  bade  me  seek  the  Queen,  who  is  taking  the 
air  yonder.  My  lady  has  received  some  tidings  she  would 
impart  to  her  Highness." 

"I  was  thinking  of  thee,  fair  damsel,  when  thy  face  bright- 
ened on  my  musings,  and  I  was  comparing  thee  to  others,  who 
dwell  in  the  world's  high  places — and  marvelling  at  the  whims 
of  fortune." 

Sibyll  smiled  faintly,  and  answered  :  "Provoke  not  too  much 
the  aspiring  folly  of  my  nature.  Content  is  better  than  am- 
bition." 

"Thou  ownest  thy  ambition?"  asked  Hastings  curiously. 

"Ah,  sir,  who  hath  it  not?" 

"But,  for  thy  sweet  sex,  ambition  has  so  narrow  and  cribbed 
a  field." 

"Not  so,  for  it  lives  in  others.  I  would  say,"  continued 
Sibyll,  coloring,  fearful  that  she  had  betrayed  herself,  "for 
example,  that  so  long  as  my  father  toils  for  fame,  I  breathe  in 
his  hope,  and  am  ambitious  for  his  honor." 

"And  so,  if  thou  wert  wedded  to  one  worthy  of  thee,  in  his 
ambition  thou  wouldst  soar  and  dare?" 

"Perhaps,"  answered  Sibyll  coyly. 

"But,  if  thou  wert  wedded  to  sorrow,  and  poverty,  and 
troublous  care,  thine  ambition,  thus  struck  dead,  would,  of 
consequence,  strike  dead  thy  love?" 

"Nay,  noble  lord,  nay — canst  thou  so  wrong  womanhood  in 
me  unworthy?  for  surely  true  ambition  lives  not  only  in  the 
goods  of  fortune.  Is  there  no  nobler  ambition  than  that  of  the 
vanity?  Is  there  no  ambition  of  the  heart?  An  ambition  to 
console,  to  cheer  the  griefs  of  those  who  love  and  trust  us? 
An  ambition  to  build  a  happiness  out  of  the  reach  of  fate?  An 
ambition  to  soothe  some  high  soul,  in  its  strife  with  a  mean 
world — to  lull  to  sleep  its  pain,  to  smile  to  serenity  its  cares? 
Oh,  methinks  a  woman's  .true  ambition  would  rise  the  bravest 
when,  in  the  very  sight  of  death  itself,  the  voice  of  him  in 
whom  her  glory  had  dwelt  through  life  should  say:  'Thou 
fearest  not  to  walk  to  the  grave,  and  to  heaven,  by  my  side ! ' ' 

Sweet  and  thrilling  were  the  tones  in  which  these  words  were 


296  THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

said — lofty  and  solemn  the  upward  and  tearful  look  with  whick 
they  closed. 

And  the  answer  struck  home  to  the  native  and  original  hero- 
ism of  the  listener's  nature,  before  debased  into  the  cynic  sour- 
ness of  worldly  wisdom.  Never  had  Katherine  herself  more 
forcibly  recalled  to  Hastings  the  pure  and  virgin  glory  of  his 
youth. 

"Oh,  Sibyll!"  he  exclaimed  passionately,  and  yielding  to 
the  impulse  of  the  moment — "oh,  that  for  me,  as  to  me,  such 
high  words  were  said !  Oh,  that  all  the  triumphs  of  a  life  men 
call  prosperous  were  excelled  by  the  one  triumph  of  waking 
such  an  ambition  in  such  a  heart!" 

Sibyll  stood  before  him  transformed — pale,  trembling,  mute — 
and  Hastings,  clasping  her  hand  and  covering  it  with  kisses, 
said: 

"Dare  I  arede  thy  silence?  Sibyll,  thou  lovest  me!  Oh, 
Sibyll,  speak!" 

With  a  convulsive  effort,  the  girl's  lips  moved,  then  closed, 
then  moved  again,  into  low  and  broken  words. 

"Why  this — why  this?  Thou  hadst  promised  not  to — 
not  to — " 

"Not  to  insult  thee  by  unworthy  vows!  Nor  do  I!  •  But  as 
my  wife — "  he  paused  abruptly,  alarmed  at  his  own  impetuous 
words,  and  scared  by  the  phantom  of  the  world  that  rose  like 
a  bodily  thing  before  the  generous  impulse,  and  grinned  in 
scorn  of  his  folly. 

But  Sibyll  heard  only  that  one  holy  word  of  WIFE,  and  so 
sudden  and  so  great  was  the  transport  it  called  forth,  that  her 
senses  grew  faint  and  dizzy,  and  she  would  have  fallen  to  the 
earth  but  for  the  arms  that  circled  her,  and  the  breast  upon 
which,  now,  the  virgin  might  veil  the  blush  that  did  not  speak 
of  shame. 

With  various  feelings,  both  were  a  moment  silent.  But,  oh, 
that  moment !  what  centuries  of  bliss  were  crowded  into  it  for 
the  nobler  and  fairer  nature ! 

At  last,  gently  releasing  herself,  she  put  her  hands  before 
her  eyes,  as  if  to  convince  herself  she  was  awake,  and  then, 
turning  her  lovely  face  full  upon  the  wooer,  Sibyll  said 
ingenuously: 

"Oh,  my  lord — oh,  Hastings!  if  thy  calmer  reason  repent 
not  these  words ;  if  thou  canst  approve  in  me  what  thou  didst 
admire  in  Elizabeth  the  Queen ;  if  thou  canst  raise  one  who 
has  no  dower  but  her  heart,  to  the  state  of  thy  wife  and  part- 
ner— by  this  hand,  which  I  place  fearlessly  in  thine,  I  pledge 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  29} 

to 'hee  such  a  love  as  minstrel  hath  never  sung.  No!"  she 
continued,  drawing  loftily  up  her  light  stature;  "no,  thou  shalt 
not  find  me  unworthy  of  thy  name — mighty  though  it  is, 
mightier  though  it  shall  be !  I  have  a  mind  that  can  share 
thine  objects;  I  have  pride  that  can  exult  in  thy  power,  cour- 
age to  partake  thy  dangers,  and  devotion — "  she  hesitated, 
with  the  most  charming  blush— "but  of  that,  sweet  lord,  thou 
shalt  judge  hereafter!  This  is  my  dowry! — it  is  all!" 

"And  all  I  ask  or  covet,"  said  Hastings.  But  his  cheek 
had  lost  its  first  passionate  glow.  Lord  of  many  a  broad  land 
and  barony,  victorious  captain  in  many  a  foughten  field,  wise 
statesman  in  many  a  thoughtful  stratagem,  high  in  his  King's 
favor,  and  linked  with  a  nation's  history — William  de  Hastings 
at  that  hour  was  as  far  below,  as  earth  is  to  heaven,  the  poor 
maiden  whom  he  already  repented  to  have  so  honored,  and 
whose  sublime  answer  woke  no  echo  from  his  heart. 

Fortunately,  as  he  deemed  it,  at  that  very  instant  he  heard 
many  steps  rapidly  approaching,  and  his  own  name  called 
aloud  by  the  voice  of  the  King's  body  squire. 

"Hark,  Edward  summons  me,"  he  said,  with  a  feeling  of 
reprieve.  "Farewell,  dear  Sibyll,  farewell  for  a  brief  while — 
we  shall  meet  anon." 

At  this  time  they  were  standing  in  that  part  of  the  rampart 
walk  which  is  now  backed  by  the  barracks  of  a  modern  sol- 
diery, and  before  which,  on  the  other  side  of  the  moat,  lay  a 
space  that  had  seemed  solitary  and  deserted ;  but,  as  Hastings, 
in  speaking  his  adieu,  hurriedly  pressed  his  lips  on  Sibyll's 
forehead — from  a  tavern  without  the  fortress,  and  opposite  the 
spot  on  which  they  stood,  suddenly  sallied  a  disorderly  troop 
of  half-drunken  soldiers,  with  a  gang  of  the  wretched  women 
that  always  continue  the  classic  association  of  a  false  Venus 
with  a  brutal  Mars;  and  the  last  words  of  Hastings  were  scarcely 
spoken,  before  a  loud  laugh  startled  both  himself  and  Sibyll, 
and  a  shudder  came  over  her  when  she  beheld  the  tinsel  robes 
of  the  tymbesteres  glittering  in  the  sun,  and  heard  their  leader 
sing,  as  she  darted  from  the  arms  of  a  reeling  soldier: 

"  Ha  !  death  to  the  dove 

Is  the  falcon's  love — 
Ob  !  sharp  is  the  kiss  of  the  falcon's  beak  ! " 


298  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

BOOK    VII. 

THE    POPULAR    REBELLION. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   WHITE    LION    OF   MARCH    SHAKES   HIS   MANE. 

"AND  what  news?"  asked  Hastings,  as  he  found  himself 
amidst  the  King's  squires;  while  yet  was  heard  the  laugh  of 
the  tymbesteres,  and  yet,  gliding  through  the  trees,  might  be 
seen  the  retreating  form  of  Sibyll. 

"My  lord,  the  King  needs  you  instantly.  A  courier  has 
just  arrived  from  the  North.  The  Lords  St.  John,  Rivers,  De 
Fulke,  and  Scales  are  already  with  his  Highness." 

"Where?" 

"In  the  great  council  chamber." 

To  that  memorable  room,*  in  the  White  Tower,  in  which  the 
visitor,  on  entrance,  is  first  reminded  of  the  name  and  fate  of 
Hastings,  strode  the  unprophetic  lord. 

He  found  Edward  not  reclining  on  cushions  and  carpets — 
not  womanlike  in  loose  robes — not  with  his  lazy  smile  upon  his 
sleek  beauty.  The  King  had  doffed  his  gown,  and  stood  erect 
in  the  tight  tunic,  which  gave  in  full  perfection  the  splendid 
proportions  of  a  frame  unsurpassed  in  activity  and  strength. 
Before  him,  on  the  long  table,  lay  two  or  three  open  letters — 
beside  the  dagger  with  which  Edward  had  cut  the  silk  that 
bound  them.  Around  him  gravely  sate  Lord  Rivers,  Anthony 
Woodville,  Lord  St.  John,  Raoul  de  Fulke,  the  young  and  val- 
iant D'Eyncourt,  and  many  other  of  the  principal  lords. 
Hastings  saw  at  once  that  something  of  pith  and  moment  had 
occurred ;  and  by  the  fire  in  the  King's  eye,  the  dilation  of  his 
nostrils,  the  cheerful  and  almost  joyous  pride  of  his  mien  and 
brow,  the  experienced  courtier  read  the  signs  of  WAR. 

"Welcome,  brave  Hastings,"  said  Edward,  in  a  voice  wholly 
changed  from  its  wonted  soft  affectation — loud,  clear,  and 
thrilling  as  it  went  through  the  marrow  and  heart  of  all  who 
heard  its  stirring  and  trumpet  accent;  "Welcome  now  to  the 
field,  as  ever  to  the  banquet!  We  have  news  from  the  North 
that  bids  us  brace  on  the  burgonot,  and  buckle-to  the  brand — 
a  revolt  that  requires  a  king's  arm  to  quell.  In  Yorkshire  fif- 
teen thousand  men  are  in  arms,  under  a  leader  they  call  Robin 

*  It  Was  from  this  room  that  Hastings  was  hurried  to  execution,  June  13,  1483, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  299 

of  Redesdale — the  pretext,  a  thrave  of  corn  demanded  by  the 
Hospital  of  St.  Leonard's — the  true  design  that  of  treason  to 
our  realm.  At  the  same  time,  we  hear  from  our  brother  of 
Gloucester,  now  on  the  border,  that  the  Scotch  have  lifted  the 
Lancaster  Rose.  There  is  peril  if  these  two  armies  meet;  no 
time  to  lose — they  are  saddling  our  war-steeds — we  hasten  to 
the  van  of  our  royal  force.  We  shall  have  warm  work,  my 
lords.  But  who  is  worthy  of  a  throne  that  cannot  guard  it!" 

"This  is  sad  tidings  indeed,  sire,"  said  Hastings  gravely. 

"Sad!  Say  it  not,  Hastings!  War  is  the  chase  of  kings! 
Sir  Raoul  de  Fulke,  why  lookest  thou  brooding  and  sor- 
rowful?" 

"Sire,  I  but  thought  that  had  Earl  Warwick  been  in  Eng- 
land, this — " 

"Ha!"  interrupted  Edward  haughtily  and  hastily — "and 
is  Warwick  the  sun  of  heaven  that  no  cloud  can  darken  where 
his  face  may  shine?  The  rebels  shall  need  no  foe,  my  realm  no 
regent,  while  I,  the  heir  of  the  Plantagenets,  have  the  sword 
for  one,  the  sceptre  for  the  other.  We  depart  this  evening 
ere  the  sun  be  set." 

"My  liege,"  said  the  Lord  St.  John  gravely,  "on  what 
forces  do  you  count  to  meet  so  formidable  an  array?" 

"All  England,  Lord  of  St.  John!" 

"Alack,  my  liege,  may  you  not  deceive  yourself!  But  in 
this  crisis,  it  is  right  that  your  leal  and  trusty  subjects  should 
speak  out  and  plainly.  It  seems  that  these  insurgents  clamor 
not  against  yourself,  but  against  the  Queen's  relations — yes, 
my  Lord  Rivers,  against  you  and  your  house,  and  I  fear  me 
that  the  hearts  of  England  are  with  them  here." 

"It  is  true,  sire, "  put  in  Raoul  de  Fulke  boldly;  "and  if 
these  new  men  are  to  head  your  armies,  the  warriors  of  Teuton 
will  stand  aloof — Raoul  de  Fulke  serves  no  Woodville's  banner. 
Frown  not,  Lord  de  Scales!  It  is  the  griping  avarice  of  you 
and  yours  that  lias  brought  this  evil  on  the  King.  For  you  the 
Commons  have  been  pillaged;  for  you  the  daughters  of  our 
peers  have  been  forced  into  monstrous  marriages,  at  war  with 
birth  and  with  nature  herself;  for  you,  the  princely  Warwick, 
near  to  the  throne  in  blood,  and  front  and  pillar  of  our  time-hon- 
ored order  of  seigneur  and  of  knight,  has  been  thrust  from  our 
suzerain's  favor.  And  if  now  ye  are  to  march  at  the  van  of 
war — you  to  be  avengers  of  the  strife  of  which  ye  are  the 
cause — I  say  that  the  soldiers  will  lack  heart,  and  the  prov- 
inces ye  pass  through  will  be  the  country  of  a  foe!" 

"Vain  man!"    began  Anthony  Woodville,  when   Hastings 


300  THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

laid  his  hand  on  his  arm,  while  Edward,  amazed  at  this  out- 
burst  from  two  of  the  supporters  on  whom  he  principally 
counted,  had  the  prudence  to  suppress  his  resentment,  and 
remained  silent,  but  with  the  aspect  of  one  resolved  to  com- 
mand obedience,  when  he  once  deemed  it  right  to  interfere. 

"Hold,  Sir  Anthony!"  said  Hastings,  who,  the  moment  he 
found  himself  with  men,  woke  to  all  the  manly  spirit  and  pro- 
found wisdom  that  had  rendered  his  name  illustrious — "hold, 
and  let  me  have  the  word ;  my  lords  St.  John  and  De  Fulke, 
your  charges  are  more  against  me  than  against  the«e  gentle- 
men, for  /  am  a  new  man — a  squire  by  birth — and  proud  to 
derive  mine  honors  from  the  same  origin  as  all  true  nobility— I 
mean  the  grace  of  a  noble  liege,  and  the  happy  fortune  of  a 
soldier's  sword.  It  may  be  (and  here  the  artful  favorite,  the 
most  beloved  of  the  whole  court,  inclined  himself  meekly) — 
it  may  be  that  I  have  not  borne  those  honors  so  mildly  as  to 
disarm  blame.  In  the  war  to  be,  let  me  atone.  My  liege, 
hear  your  servant :  give  me  no  command — let  me  be  a  simple 
soldier,  fighting  by  your  side.  My  example  who  will  not  fol- 
low?— proud  to  ride  but  as  a  man  of  arms  along  the  track 
which  the  sword  of  his  sovereign  shall  cut  through  the  ranks  of 
battle?  Not  you,  Lord  de  Scales,  redoubtable  and  invincible 
with  lance  and  axe;  let  us  new  men  soothe  envy  by  our  deeds; 
and  you,  Lords  St.  John  and  De  Fulke, — you  shall  teach  us 
how  your  fathers  led  warriors  who  did  not  fight  more  gallantly 
than  we  will.  And  when  rebellion  is  at  rest — when  we  meet 
again  in  our  suzerain's  hall — accuse  us  new  men,  if  you  can 
find  us  faulty,  and  we  will  answer  you  as  we  best  may!" 

This  address,  which  could  have  come  from  no  man  with 
such  effect  as  from  Hastings,  touched  all  present.  And  though 
the  Woodvilles,  father  and  son,  saw  in  it  much  to  gall  their 
pride,  and  half-believed  it  a  snare  for  their  humiliation,  they 
made  no  opposition.  Raoul  de  Fulke,  ever  generous  as  fiery, 
stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  said: 

"Lord  Hastings,  you  have  spoken  well.  Be  it  as  the  King 
wills." 

"My  lords,"  returned  Edward  gayly,  "my  will  is  that  ye  be 
friends  while  a  foe  is  in  the  field.  Hasten,  then,  I  beseech 
you,  one  and  all,  to  raise  your  vassals,  and  join  our  standard 
at  Fotheringay.  I  will  find  ye  posts  that  shall  content  the 
bravest." 

The  King  made  a  sign  to  break  up  the  conference,  and,  dis- 
missing even  the  Woodvilles,  was  left  alone  with  Hastings. 

"Thou   hast  served  me  at  need,   Will,"    said  the  King. 


THE   LAST    OF   THE    BARONS.  30! 

"But  I  shall  remember  (and  his  eye  flashed  a  tiger's  fire)  the 
mouthing  of  those  mock-pieces  of  the  lords  at  Runnymede.  I 
am  no  John,  to  be  bearded  by  my  vassals.  Enough  of  them, 
now.  Think  you  Warwick  can  have  abetted  this  revolt?" 

"A  revolt  of  peasants  and  yeomen!  No,  sire.  If  he  did 
so,  farewell  forever  to  the  love  the  barons  bear  him." 

"Um!  and  yet  Montagu,  whom  I  dismissed  ten  days  since 
to  the  Borders,  hearing  of  disaffection,  hath  done  nought  to 
check  it.  But  come  what  may,  his  must  be  a  bold  lance  that 
shivers  against  a  king's  mail.  And  now  one  kiss  of  my  Lady 
Bessee,  one  cup  of  the  bright  canary,  and  then  God  and  St. 
George  for  the  White  Rose!" 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    CAMP    AT    OLNEY. 

IT  was  some  weeks  after  the  citizens  of  London  had  seen 
their  gallant  king,  at  the  head  of  such  forces  as  were  collected 
in  haste  in  the  metropolis,  depart  from  their  walls  to  the  en- 
counter of  the  rebels.  Surprising  and  disastrous  had  been  the 
tidings  in  the  interim.  At  first,  indeed,  there  were  hopes  that 
the  insurrection  had  been  put  down  by  Montagu,  who  had  de- 
feated the  troops  of  Robin  of  Redesdale,  near  the  city  of  York, 
and  was  said  to  have  beheaded  their  leader.  But  the  spirit  of 
discontent  was  only  fanned  by  an  adverse  wind.  The  popular 
hatred  to  the  Woodvilles  was  so  great,  that  in  proportion  as 
Edward  advanced  to  the  scene  of  action,  the  country  rose  in 
arms  as  Raoul  de  Fulke  had  predicted.  Leaders  of  lordly 
birth  now  headed  the  rebellion;  the  sons  of  the  Lords  Latimer 
and  Fitzhugh  (near  kinsmen  of  the  House  of  Nevile)  lent  their 
names  to  the  cause;  and  Sir  John  Coniers,  an  experienced 
soldier,  whose  claims  had  been  disregarded  by  Edward,  gave  to 
the  insurgents  the  aid  of  a  formidable  capacity  for  war.  In  every 
mouth  was  the  story  of  the  Duchess  of  Bedford's  witchcraft; 
and  the  waxen  figure  of  the  Earl  did  more  to  rouse  the  people, 
than  perhaps  the  Earl  himself  could  have  done  in  person.*  As 
yet,  however,  the  language  of  the  insurgents  was  tempered  with 
all  personal  respect  to  the  King;  they  declared  in  their  mani- 
festoes that  they  desired  only  the  banishment  of  the  Wood- 
villes, and  the  recall  of  Warwick,  whose  name  they  used  un- 
scrupulously, and  whom  they  declared  they  were  on  their  way 

*  See  "  Parliamentary  Rolls,"  vi.  23?,  for  the  accusations  of  witchcraft,  and  the  fabrica- 
tion of  a  necromantic  image  of  Lord  Warwick,  circulated  against  the  Du<  ness  of  Bedford. 
She  herself  quotes,  and  complains  of,  them. 


301  THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

to  meet.  As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  the  kinsmen  of  the 
beloved  Earl  were  in  the  revolt,  and  naturally  supposed  that 
the  Earl  himself  must  countenance  the  enterprise,  the  tumul- 
tuous camp  swelled  every  hour,  while  knight  after  knight,  vet- 
eran after  veteran,  abandoned  the  royal  standard.  The  Lord 
d'Eyncourt  (one  of  the  few  lords  of  the  highest  birth  and 
greatest  following,  over  whom  the  Neviles  had  no  influence, 
and  who  bore  the  Woodvilles  no  grudge),  had,  in  his  way  to 
Lincolnshire,  where  his  personal  aid  was  necessary  to  rouse  his 
vassals,  infected  by  the  common  sedition,  been  attacked  and 
wounded  by  a  body  of  marauders,  and  thus  Edward's  camp 
lost  one  of  its  greatest  leaders.  Fierce  dispute  broke  out  in  the 
King's  councils;  and  when  the  witch  Jacquetta's  practices 
against  the  Earl  travelled  from  the  hostile  into  the  royal  camp, 
Raoul  de  Fulke,  St.  John,  and  others,  seized  with  pious  horror, 
positively  declared  they  would  throw  down  their  arms  and  re- 
tire to  their  castles,  unless  the  Woodvilles  were  dismissed  from 
the  camp,  and  the  Earl  of  Warwick  was  recalled  to  England. 
To  the  first  demand  the  King  was  constrained  to  yield;  with 
the  second  he  temporized.  He  marched  from  Fotheringay  to 
Newark ;  but  the  signs  of  disaffection,  though  they  could  not  dis- 
may him  as  a  soldier,  altered  his  plans  as  a  captain  of  singular 
military  acuteness;  he  fell  back  on  Nottingham,  and  des- 
patched, with  his  own  hands,  letters  to  Clarence,  the  Arch- 
bishop of  York,  and  Warwick.  To  the  last  he  wrote  touch- 
ingly.  "We  do  not  believe  (said  the  letter)  that  ye  should  be 
of  any  such  disposition  towards  us,  as  the  rumor  here  runneth, 
considering  the  trust  and  affection  we  bear  you — and  cousin, 
ne  think  ye  shall  be  to  us  welcome."  *  But  ere  these  letters 
reached  the  destination,  the  crown  seemed  well-nigh  lost.  At 
Edgecote,  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  was  defeated  and  slain,  and 
five  thousand  royalists  were  left  on  the  field.  Earl  Rivers,  and 
his  son,  Sir  John  Woodville,f  who,  in  obedience  to  the  royal 
order,  had  retired  to  the  Earl's  country  seat  of  Grafton,  were 
taken  prisoners,  and  beheaded  by  the  vengeance  of  the  insur- 
gents. The  same  lamentable  fate  befell  the  Lord  Stafford,  on 
whom  Edward  relied  as  one  of  his  most  puissant  leaders;  and 

*  "  Paston's  Letters,"  ccxcviii.  (Knight's  edition),  vol.  ii.,  p.  59.  See  also  Lingard,  vol. 
iii.,  p.  522,  (410  edition),  note  43,  for  the  proper  date  to  be  assigned  to  Edward's  letter  to 
Warwick,  etc. 

t  This  Sir  John  Woodville  was  the  most  obnoxious  of  the  queen's  brothers,  and  infamous 
for  the  avarice  which  had  led  him  to  marry  the  old  Duchess  of  Norfolk,  an  act  which,  ac- 
cording to  the  old  laws  of  chivalry,  would  have  disabled  him  from  entering  the  lists  of 
knighthood,  for  the  ancient  code  disqualified  and  degraded  any  knight  who  should  mairy 
an  old  woman  for  her  money  !  Lord  Rivers  was  the  more  odious  to  the  people  at  the 
time  of  the  insurrection,  because,  in  his  capacity  of  treasurer,  he  had  lately  tampered  with 
the  coin  and  circulation. 


THE   LAST   OF    TH£   BARONS.  303 

London  heard  with  dismay  that  the  King,  with  but  a  handful 
of  troops,  and  those  lukewarm  and  disaffected,  was  begirt  on 
all  sides  by  hostile  and  marching  thousands. 

From  Nottingham,  however,  Edward  made  good  his  retreat 
to  a  village  called  Olney,  which  chanced  at  that  time  to  be  par- 
tially fortified  with  a  wall  and  a  strong  gate.  Here  the  rebels 
pursued  him;  and  Edward,  hearing  that  Sir  Anthony  Wood- 
ville,  who  conceived  that  the  fate  of  his  father  and  brother 
cancelled  all  motive  for  longer  absence  from  the  contest,  was 
busy  in  collecting  a  force  in  the  neighborhood  of  Coventry, 
while  other  assistance  might  be  daily  expected  from  London, 
strengthened  the  fortifications  as  well  as  the  time  would  permit, 
and  awaited  the  assault  of  the  insurgents. 

It  was  at  this  crisis,  and  while  throughout  all  England 
reigned  terror  and  commotion,  that  one  day,  towards  the  end 
of  July,  a  small  troop  of  horsemen  were  seen  riding  rapidly 
towards  the  neighborhood  of  Olney.  As  the  village  came  in 
view  of  the  cavalcade,  with  the  spire  of  its  church,  and  its  gray 
stone  gateway,  so,  also,  they  beheld,  on  the  pastures  that 
stretched  around  wide  and  far,  a  moving  forest  of  pikes  and 
plumes. 

"Holy  Mother!"  said  one  of  the  foremost  riders,  "good 
knight  and  strong  man  though  Edward  be,  it  were  sharp  work 
to  cut  his  way  from  that  hamlet  through  yonder  fields ! 
Brother,  we  were  more  welcome,  had  we  brought  more  bills 
and  bows  at  our  backs!" 

"Archbishop,"  answered  the  stately  personage  thus  ad- 
dressed, "we  bring  what  alone  raises  armies  and  disbands 
them — a  NAME  that  a  People  honors!  From  the  moment  the 
White  Bear  is  seen  on  yonder  archway,  side  by  side  with  the 
King's  banner,  that  army  will  vanish  as  smoke  before  the  wind." 

"Heaven  grant  it,  Warwick!"  said  the  Duke  of  Clarence, 
"for,  though  Edward  hath  used  us  sorely,  it  chafes  me  as  Plan- 
tagenet  and  as  prince,  to  see  how  peasants  and  varlets  can  hem 
round  a  king." 

"Peasants  and  varlets  are  pawns  in  the  chess-board,  Cousin 
George,"  said  the  prelate,  "and  knight  and  bishop  find  them 
mighty  useful,  when  pushing  forward  to  an  attack.  Now 
knight  and  bishop  appear  themselves  and  take  up  the  game — 
Warwick,"  added  the  prelate,  in  a  whisper,  unheard  by  Clar- 
ence, '  'forget  not,  while  appeasing  rebellion,  that  the  King  is 
in  your  power." 

"For  shame,  George!  I  think  not  now  of  the  unkind  King; 
I  think  only  of  the  brave  boy  I  dandled  on  my  knee,  and  whose 


364  'i  UK    LAST    OF    THE    BARON3. 

sword  I  girded  on  at  Touton.  How  his  lion  heart  must  chafe, 
condemned  to  see  a  foe  whom  his  skill  as  captain  tells  him  it 
were  madness  to  confront!" 

"Ay,  Richard  Nevile! — ay,"  said  the  prelate,  with  a  slight 
sneer,  "play  the  Paladin,  and  become  the  dupe — release  the 
prince,  and  betray  the  people!" 

"No!  I  can  be  true  to  both.  Tush!  brother,  your  craft  is 
slight  to  the  plain  wisdom  of  bold  honesty.  You  slacken  your 
steeds,  sirs,  on — on — see,  the  march  of  the  rebels!  On,  for 
an  Edward  and  a  Warwick !"  and  spurring  to  full  speed,  the 
little  company  arrived  at  the  gates.  The  loud  bugle  of  the 
new-comers  was  answered  by  the  cheerful  note  of  the  joyous 
warder,  while  dark,  slow,  and  solemn,  over  the  meadows,  crept 
on  the  mighty  cloud  of  the  rebel  army. 

"We  have  forestalled  the  insurgents!"  said  the  Earl,  throw- 
ing himself  from  his  black  steed.  "Marmaduke  Nevile,  ad- 
vance our  banner;  heralds,  announce  the  Duke  of  Clarence, 
the  Archbishop  of  York,  and  the  Earl  of  Salisbury  and 
Warwick." 

Through  the  anxious  town,  along  the  crowded  walls  and 
housetops,  into  the  hall  of  an  old  mansion  (that  then  adjoined 
the  church),  where  the  King,  in  complete  armor,  stood,  at  bay, 
with  stubborn  and  disaffected  officers,  rolled  the  thunder  cry : 
"A  Warwick — a  Warwick!  All  saved!  a  Warwick!" 

Sharply,  as  he  heard  the  clamor,  the  King  turned  upon  his 
startled  council.  "Lords  and  captains!"  said  he,  with  that 
inexpressible  majesty  which  he  could  command  in  his  happier 
hours,  "God  and  our  Patron  Saint  have  sent  us  at  least  one 
man  who  has  the  heart  to  fight  fifty  times  the  odds  of  yon  mis- 
creant rabble,  by  his  King's  side,  and  for  the  honor  of  loyalty 
and  knighthood!" 

"And  who  says,  sire,"  answered  Raoul  de  Fulke,  "that  we 
your  lords  and  captains  would  not  risk  blood  and  life  for  our 
King  and  our  knighthood  in  a  just  cause?  But  we  will  not 
butcher  our  countrymen  for  echoing  our  own  complaint,  and 
praying  your  Grace  that  a  grasping  and  ambitious  family 
which  you  have  raised  to  power  may  no  longer  degrade  your 
nobles  and  oppress  your  Commons.  We  shall  see  if  the  Earl 
of  Warwick  blame  us  or  approve." 

"And  I  answer,"  said  Edward  loftily,  "that  whether  War- 
wick approve  or  blame,  come  as  friend  or  foe,  I  will  sooner  ride 
alone  through  yonder  archway,  and  carve  out  a  soldier's  grave 
amongst  the  ranks  of  rebellious  war,  than  be  the  puppet  of  my 
subjects,  and  serve  their  will  by  compulsion.  Free  am  I— 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARON&  $65 

free  ever  will  I  be,  while  the  crown  of  Plantagenet  is  mine,  to 
raise  those  whom  I  love,  to  defy  the  threats  of  those  sworn  to 
obey  me.  And  were  I  but  Earl  of  March,  instead  of  King  of 
England,  this  hall  should  have  swam  with  the  blood  of  those 
who  have  insulted  the  friends  of  my  youth — the  wife  of  my 
bosom.  Off,  Hastings!  I  need  no  mediator  with  my  servants. 
Nor  here,  nor  anywhere  in  broad  England,  have  I  my  equal, 
and  the  King  forgives  or  scorns — construe  it  as  ye  will,  my 
lords — what  the  simple  gentleman  would  avenge." 

It  were  in  vain  to  describe  the  sensation  that  this  speech 
produced.  There  is  ever  something  in  courage  and  in  will 
that  awes  numbers,  though  brave  themselves.  And  what  with 
the  unquestioned  valor  of  Edward ;  what  with  the  effect  of  his 
splendid  person,  towering  above  all  present  by  the  head,  and 
moving  lightly,  with  each  impulse,  through  the  mass  of  a  mail 
that  few  there  could  have  borne  unsinking,  this  assertion  of  ab- 
solute power  in  the  midst  of  mutiny — an  army  marching  to  the 
gates — imposed  an  unwilling  reverence  and  sullen  silence, 
mixed  with  anger,  that,  while  it  chafed,  admired.  They  who, 
in  peace,  had  despised  the  voluptuous  monarch,  feasting  in  his 
palace,  and  reclining  on  the  lap  of  harlot-beauty,  felt  that  in 
war  all  Mars  seemed  living  in  his  person.  Then,  indeed,  he 
was  a  king ;  and  had  the  foe,  now  darkening  the  landscape, 
been  the  noblest  chivalry  of  France,  not  a  man  but  had  died 
for  a  smile  from  that  haughty  lip.  But  the  barons  were  knit 
heart  in  heart  with  the  popular  outbreak,  and  to  put  down  the 
revolt  seemed  to  them  but  to  raise  the  Woodvilles.  The  silence 
was  still  unbroken,  save  where  the  persuasive  whisper  of  Lord 
Hastings  might  be  faintly  heard  in  remonstrance  with  the 
more  powerful  or  the  more  stubborn  of  the  chiefs,  when  the 
tread  of  steps  resounded  without,  and,  unarmed,  bareheaded, 
the  only  form  in  Christendom  grander  and  statelier  than  the 
King's  strode  into  the  Hall. 

Edward,  as  yet  unaware  what  course  Warwick  would  pur- 
sue, and  half-doubtful  whether  a  revolt  that  had  borrowed  his 
name,  and  was  led  by  his  kinsmen,  might  not  originate  in  his 
consent,  surrounded  by  those  to  whom  the  Earl  was  especially 
dear,  and  aware  that  if  Warwick  were  against  him  all  was  lost, 
still  relaxed  not  the  dignity  of  his  mien ;  and  leaning  on  his 
large  two-handed  sword,  with  such  inward  resolves  as  brave 
kings  and  gallant  gentlemen  form,  if  the  worst  should  befall, 
he  watched  the  majestic  strides  of  his  great  kinsman,  and  said, 
as  the  Earl  approached,  and  the  mutinous  captains  louted  low: 

"Cousin,  you  are  welcome!  for  truly  do  I  know  that  when 


306  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

you  have  aught  whereof  to  complain,  you  take  not  the  moment 
of  danger  and  disaster.  And  whatever  has  chanced  to  alienate 
your  heart  from  me,  the  sound  of  the  rebel's  trumpet  chases  all 
difference,  and  marries  your  faith  to  mine." 

"Oh,  Edward,  my  King,  why  did  you  so  misjudge  me  in  the 
prosperous  hour!"  said  Warwick  simply,  but  with  affecting 
earnestness;  "since  in  the  adverse  hour  you  arede  me  well?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  bowed  his  head,  and,  bending  his  knee, 
kissed  the  hand  held  out  to  him. 

Edward's  face  grew  radiant,  and  raising  the  Earl,  he  glanced 
proudly  at  the  barons  who  stood  round,  surprised  and  mute. 

"Yes,  my  lords  and  sirs,  see — it  is  not  the  Earl  of  Warwick, 
next  to  our  royal  brethren,  the  nearest  subject  to  the  throne, 
who  would  desert  me  in  the  day  of  peril!" 

"  Nor  do  7<w,  sire,"  retorted  Raoul  De  Fulke;  "you  wrong 
us  before  our  mighty  comrade  if  you  so  misthink  us.  We  will 
fight  for  the  King,  but  not  for  the  Queen's  kindred ;  and  this 
alone  brings  on  us,  your  anger." 

"The  gates  shall  be  opened  to  ye.  Go!  Warwick  and  I  are 
men  enough  for  the  rabble  yonder." 

The  Earl's  quick  eye,  and  profound  experience  of  his  time, 
saw  at  once  the  dissension  and  its  causes.  Nor,  however  gener- 
ous, was  he  willing  to  forego  the  present  occasion  for  perma- 
nently destroying  an  influence  which  he  knew  hostile  to  him- 
self and  hurtful  to  the  realm.  His  was  not  the  generosity  of 
a  boy,  but  of  a  statesman.  Accordingly,  as  Raoul  de  Fulke 
ceased,  he  took  up  the  word. 

"My  liege,  we  have  yet  an  hour  good  ere  the  foe  can  reach 
the  gates.  Your  brother  and  mine  accompany  me.  See,  they 
enter!  Please  you,  a  few  minutes  to  confer  with  them;  and 
suffer  me,  awhile,  to  reason  with  these  noble  captains." 

Edward  paused ;  but  before  the  open  brow  of  the  Earl  fled 
whatever  suspicion  might  have  crossed  the  King's  mind. 

"Be  it  so,  cousin:  but  remember  this,  to  councillors  who 
can  menace  me  with  desertion  in  such  a  hour,  I  concede 
nothing." 

Turning  hastily  away,  he  met  Clarence  and  the  prelate,  mid- 
way in  the  hall,  threw  his  arm  caressingly  over  his  brother's 
shoulder,  and,  taking  the  Archbishop  by  the  hand,  walked  with 
them  towards  the  battlements. 

"Well,  my  friends,"  said  Warwick,  "and  what  would  you  of 
the  King?"' 

"The  dismissal  of  all  the  Woodvilles,  except  the  Queen; 
the  revocation  of  the  grants  and  land  accorded  to  them,  to  the 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  367 

despoiling  the  ancient  noble;  and,  but  for  your  presence,  we 
had  demanded  your  recall." 

"And,  failing  these,  what  your  resolve?" 

"To  depart,  and  leave  Edward  to  his  fate.  These  granted, 
we  doubt  little  but  that  the  insurgents  will  disband.  These 
not  granted,  we  but  waste  our  lives  against  a  multitude  whose 
cause  we  must  approve." 

"The  cause!  But  ye  know  not  the  real  cause,"  answered 
Warwick.  "I  know  it;  for  the  sons  of  the  North  are  familiar 
to  me,  and  their  rising  hath  deeper  meaning  than  ye  deem. 
What!  have  they  not  decoyed  to  their  head  my  kinsmen,  the 
heirs  of  Latimer  and  Fitzhugh,  and  bold  Coniers,  whose  steel 
casque  should  have  circled  a  wiser  brain?  Have  they  not 
taken  my  name  as  their  battle-cry!  And  do  ye  think  this 
falsehood  veils  nothing  but  the  simple  truth  of  just  complaint?" 

"Was  their  rising,  then,"  asked  St.  John,  in  evident  sur- 
prise, "wholly  unauthorized  by  you?" 

"So  help  me  Heaven!  If  I  would  resort  to  arms  to  redress 
a  wrong,  think  not  that  I  myself  would  be  absent  from  the 
field?  No,  my  lords,  friends,  and  captains — time  presses ;  a  few 
words  must  suffice  to  explain  what,  as  yet,  may  be  dark  to  you. 
I  have  letters  from  Montagu  and  others,  which  reached  me 
the  same  day  as  the  King's,  and  which  clear  up  the  purpose  of 
our  misguided  countrymen.  Ye  know  well  that  ever  in  Eng- 
land, but  especially  since  the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  strange, 
wild  notions  of  some  kind  of  liberty  other  than  that  we  enjoy 
have  floated  loose  through  the  land.  Among  the  Commons,  a 
half-conscious  recollection  that  the  nobles  are  a  different  race 
from  themselves  feeds  a  secret  rancor  and  mislike,  which  at 
any  fair  occasion  for  riot,  shows  itself  bitter  and  ruthless — as 
in  the  outbreak  of  Cade  and  others.  And  if  the  harvest  fail, 
or  a  tax  gall,  there  are  never  wanting  men  to  turn  the  popular 
distress  to  the  ends  of  private  ambition  or  state  design.  Such 
a  man  has  been  the  true  head  and  front  of  this  commotion." 

"Speak  you  of  Robin  Redesdale,  now  dead?"  asked  one  of 
the  captains. 

"He  is  not  dead.*     Montagu  informs  me  that  the  report  was 

*  The  fate  of  Robin  of  Redesdale  has  been  as  obscure  as  most  of  the  incidents  in  this 
most  perplexed  part  of  English  history.  While  some  of  the  chroniclers  finish  his  career 
according  to  the  report  mentioned  in  the  text,  Fabyan  not  only  more  charitably  prolongs 
his  life,  out  rewards  him  with  the  king's  pardon  ;  and  according  to  the  annals  of  his  ancient 


308  i  HE  LAST  of  t ne  HARONS. 

false.  He  was  defeated  off  York,  and  retired  for  some  days 
into  the  woods;  but  it  is  he  who  has  enticed  the  sons  of  Lati- 
mer  and  Fitzhugh  into  the  revolt,  and  resigned  his  own  com- 
mand to  the  martial  cunning  of  Sir  John  Coniers.  This  Robin 
of  Redesdale  is  no  common  man.  He  hath  had  a  clerkly  ed- 
ucation;  he  hath  travelled  among  the  Free  Towns  of  Italy;  he 
hath  deep  purpose  in  all  he  doth ;  and  among  his  projects  is 
the  destruction  of  the  nobles  here,  as  it  was  whilome  effected 
in  Florence,  the  depriving  us  of  all  offices  and  posts,  with  other 
changes,  wild  to  think  of,  and  long  to  name." 

"And  we  would  have  suffered  this  man  to  triumph !"  ex- 
claimed De  Fulke:  "we  have  been  to  blame." 

"Under  fair  pretence  he  has  gathered  numbers,  and  now 
wields  an  army.  I  have  reason  to  know  that,  had  he  suc- 
ceeded in  estranging  ye  from  Edward,  and  had  the  King  fallen, 
dead  or  alive,  into  his  hands,  his  object  would  have  been  to 
restore  Henry  of  Windsor,  but  on  conditions  that  would  have 
left  king  and  baron  little  more  than  pageants  in  the  state.  I 
knew  this  man  years  ago.  I  have  watched  him  since ;  and, 
strange  though  it  may  seem  to  you,  he  hath  much  in  him  that 
I  admire  as  a  subject  and  should  fear  were  I  a  king.  Brief, 
thus  runs  my  counsel:  For  our  sake  and  the  realm's  safety  we 
must  see  this  armed  multitude  disbanded — that  done,  we  must 
see  the  grievances  they  with  truth  complain  of  fairly  redressed. 
Think  not,  my  lords,  I  avenge  my  own  wrongs  alone,  when  I  go 
with  you  in  your  resolve  to  banish  from  the  King's  councils  the 
baleful  influence  of  the  Queen's  kin.  Till  that  be  compassed, 
no  peace  for  England.  As  a  leprosy,  their  avarice  crawls  over 
the  nobler  parts  of  the  state,  and  devours  while  it  sullies. 
Leave  this  to  me ;  and,  though  we  will  redress  ourselves,  let  us 
now  assist  our  King!" 

With  one  voice  the  unruly  officers  clamored  their  assent  to 
all  the  Earl  urged,  and  expressed  their  readiness  to  sally  at 
once  from  the  gates,  and  attack  the  rebels. 

"  But,"  observed  an  old  veteran,  "  what  are  we  amongst  so 
many  ?  Here  a  handful — there  an  army  !  " 

"  Fear  not,  reverend  sir,"  answered  Warwick,  with  an  assured 
smile  ;  "  is  it  not  this  army  in  part  gathered  from  my  own 
province  of  Yorkshire  !  Is  it  not  formed  of  men  who  have 
eaten  of  my  bread  and  drank  of  my  cup  ?  Let  me  see  the  man 
who  will  discharge  one  arrow  at  the  walls  which  contain  Rich- 
ard Nevile  of  Warwick.  Now  each  to  your  posts — I  to  the 
King." 

Like  the  pouring  of  new  blood  into  a  decrepit  body  seemed 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  309 

the  arrival,  at  that  feeble  garrison,  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick. 
From  despair  into  the  certainty  of  triumph  leaped  every  heart. 
Already,  at  the  sight  of  his  banner  floating  by  the  side  of 
Edward's,  the  gunner  had  repaired  to  his  bombard,  the  archer 
had  taken  up  his  bow — the  village  itself,  before  disaffected, 
poured  all  its  scanty  population — women,  and  age,  and  child- 
ren— to  the  walls.  And  when  the  Earl  joined  the  King  upon 
the  ramparts,  he  found  that  able  general  sanguine  and  elated, 
and  pointing  out  to  Clarence  the  natural  defences  of  the  place. 
Meanwhile  the  rebels,  no  doubt  apprised  by  their  scouts  of  the 
new  aid,  had  already  halted  in  their  march,  and  the  dark  swarm 
might  be  seen  indistinctly  undulating,  as  bees  ere  they  settle, 
amidst  the  verdure  of  the  plain. 

"  Well,  cousin,"  said  the  King,  "  have  ye  brought  these  Hot- 
spurs to  their  allegiance  ?  " 

"  Sire,  yes  "  ;  said  Warwick  gravely,  "  but  we  have  here  no- 
force  to  resist  yon  army." 

"  Bring  you  not  succors  !  "  said  the  King,  astonished.  "  You 
must  have  passed  through  London.  Have  you  left  no  troops 
upon  the  road  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  time,  sire  ;  and  London  is  well-nigh  palsied  with 
dismay.  Had  I  waited  to  collect  troops,  I  might  have  found  a 
King's  head  blackening  over  those  gates." 

"  Well,"  returned  Edward  carefully,  "  few  or  many,  one 
gentleman  is  more  worth  than  a  hundred  varlets.  '  We  are  eno" 
for  glory,'  as  Henry  said  at  Agincourt." 

"  No,  sire ;  you  are  too  skilful  and  too  wise  to  believe  your 
boast.  These  men  we  cannot  conquer — we  may  disperse 
them." 

"  By  what  spell  ?  " 

"By  their  King's  word  to  redress  their  complaints." 

"  And  banish  my  Queen  ?  " 

"Heaven  forbid  that  man  should  part  those  whom  God  has 
joined,"  returned  Warwick.  "Not  my  lady,  your  Queen,  but 
my  lady's  kindred." 

"  Rivers  is  dead,  and  gallant  John,"  said  Edward  sadly, — 
"is  not  that  enough  for  revenge  ? " 

"  It  is  not  revenge  that  we  require,  but  pledges  for  the  land's 
safety,"  answered  Warwick.  "  And  to  be  plain,  without  such 
a  promise  these  walls  may  be  your  tomb." 

Edward  walked  apart,  strongly  debating  within  himself.  In 
his  character  were  great  contrasts  ;  no  man  was  more  frank  in 
common,  no  man  more  false  when  it  suited — no  man  had  more 
levity  in  wanton  love,  or  more  firm  affection  for  those  he  once 


310  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

thoroughly  took  to  his  heart.  He  was  the  reverse  of  grateful 
for  service  yielded,  yet  he  was  warm  in  protecting  those  on 
whom  service  was  conferred.  He  was  resolved  not  to  give  up 
the  Woodvilles,  and,  after  a  short  self-commune,  he  equally 
determined  not  to  risk  his  crown  and  life  by  persevering  in 
resistance  to  the  demand  for  their  downfall.  Inly  obstinate, 
outwardly  yielding,  he  concealed  his  falsehood  with  his  usual 
soldierly  grace. 

"  Warwick,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  Earl's  side,  "  you  can- 
not advise  me  to  what  is  misbeseeming,  and  therefore,  in  this 
strait,  I  resign  my  conduct  to  your  hands.  I  will  not  unsay  to 
yon  mutinous  gentlemen  what  I  have  already  said  ;  but  what 
you  judge  it  right  to  promise  in  my  name  to  them,  or  to  the 
insurgents,  I  will  not  suppose  that  mine  honor  will  refuse  to 
concede.  But  go  not  hence,  O,  noblest  friend  that  ever  stood 
by  a  king's  throne  ! — go  not  hence  till  the  grasp  of  your  hand 
assures  me  that  all  past  unkindness  is  gone  and  buried  ;  yea, 
and  by  this  hand,  and  while  its  pressure  is  warm  in  mine, 
bear  not  too  hard  on  thy  King's  affection  for  his  lady's 
kindred." 

"Sire,"  said  Warwick,  though  his  generous  nature  well-nigh 
melted  into  weakness,  and  it  was  with  an  effort  that  he  adhered 
to  his  purpose — "  Sire,  if  dismissed  for  a  while  they  shall  not  be 
degraded.  And  if  it  be,  on  consideration,  wise  to  recall  from 
the  family  of  Woodville  your  grants  of  lands  and  lordships, 
take  from  your  Warwick — who,  rich  in  his  King's  love,  hath 
eno'  to  spare — take  the  double  of  what  you  would  recall.  Oh, 
be  frank  with  me — be  true — be  steadfast,  Edward,  and  dispose 
of  my  lands  whenever  you  would  content  a  favorite." 

"  Not  to  impoverish  thee,  my  Warwick,"  answered  Edward, 
smiling,  "did  I  call  thee  to  my  aid  ;  for  the  rest,  my  revenues 
as  Duke  of  York  are  at  least  mine  to  bestow.  Go  now  to  the 
hostile  camp — go  as  sole  minister  and  captain-general  of  this 
realm — go  with  all  powers  and  honors  a  king  can  give  ;  and 
when  these  districts  are  at  peace,  depart  to  our  Welch  prov- 
inces, as  chief  justiciary  of  that  principality.  Pembroke's 
mournful  death  leaves  that  high  post  in  my  gift.  It  cannot 
add  to  your  greatness,  but  it  proves  to  England  your  sover- 
fign's  trust." 

"  And  while  that  trust  is  given,"  said  Warwick,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  "  may  Heaven  strengthen  my  arm  in  battle,  and 
sharpen  my  brain  in  council.  But  I  play  the  laggard.  The 
sun  wanes  westward  ;  it  should  not  go  down  while  a  hostile 
army  menaces  the  son  of  Richard  of  York," 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  31! 

The  Earl  strode  rapidly  away,  reached  the  broad  space  where 
his  followers  still  stood,  dismounted,  but  beside  their  steeds  : 

"  Trumpets  advance — pursuivants  and  heralds  go  before — 
Marmaduke,  mount  !  The  rest  I  need  not.  We  ride  to  the 
insurgent  camp." 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE    CAMP    OF    THE    REBELS. 

THE  rebels  had  halted  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  and  were 
already  pitching  their  tents  for  the  night.  It  was  a  tumult- 
uous, clamorous,  but  not  altogether  undisciplined,  array ;  for 
Coniers  was  a  leader  of  singular  practice  in  reducing  men  into 
the  machinery  of  war,  and  where  his  skill  might  have  failed, 
the  prodigious  influence  and  energy  of  Robin  of  Redesdale 
ruled  the  passions  and  united  the  discordant  elements.  This 
last  was,  indeed,  in  much  worthy  the  respect  in  which  Warwick 
held  his  name.  In  times  more  ripe  for  him,  he  would  have 
been  a  mighty  demagogue  and  a  successful  regenerator.  His 
birth  was  known  to  but  few  ;  his  education  and  imperious 
temper  made  him  vulgarly  supposed  of  noble  origin  ;  but  had 
he  descended  from  a  king's  loins,  Robert  Hilyard  had  still 
been  the  son  of  the  Saxon  people.  Warwick  overrated,  per- 
haps, Hilyard's  wisdom  ;  for,  despite  his  Italian  experience, 
his  ideas  were  far  from  embracing  any  clear  and  definite  sys- 
tem of  democracy.  He  had  much  of  the  fanatic  levelism  and 
jacquerie  of  his  age  and  land,  and  could  probably  not  have 
explained  to  himself  all  the  changes  he  desired  to  effect  ;  but, 
coupled  with  his  hatred  to  the  nobles,  his  deep  and  passionate 
sympathy  with  the  poor,  his  heated  and  fanatical  chimeras  of 
a  republic,  half-political  and  half-religious,  he  had,  with  no 
uncommon  inconsistency,  linked  the  cause  of  a  dethroned  king. 
For  as  the  Covenanters  linked  with  the  Stuarts  against  the 
succeeding  and  more  tolerant  dynasty  never  relinquishing  their 
own  anti-monarchic  theories  :  as  in  our  time,  the  extreme  party 
on  the  popular  side  has  leagued  with  the  extreme  of  the  aristo- 
cratic, in  order  to  crush  the  medium  policy,  as  a  common  foe  ; 
so  the  bold  leveller  united  with  his  zeal  for  Margaret  the  very 
cause  which  the  House  of  Lancaster  might  be  supposed  the 
least  to  favor.  He  expected  to  obtain  from  a  sovereign,  depen- 
dent upon  a  popular  reaction  for  restoration,  great  popular 
privileges.  And  as  the  Church  had  deserted  the  Red  Rose  for 
the  White,  he  sought  to  persuade  many  of  the  Lollards,  ever 
ready  to  show  their  discontent,  that  Margaret  (in  revenge  on 


312  THE    LAST    OF    THE    15ARONS. 

the  hierarchy)  would  extend  the  protection  they  had  never 
found  in  the  previous  sway  of  her  husband  and  Henry  V. 
Possessed  of  extraordinary  craft,  and  even  cunning  in  secular 
intrigues- — energetic,  versatile,  bold,  indefatigable,  and,  above 
all,  marvellously  gifted  with  the  arts  that  inflame,  stir  up,  and 
guide  the  physical  force  of  masses,  Robert  Hilyard  had  been, 
indeed,  the  soul  and  life  of  the  present  revolt ;  and  his  prudent 
moderation  in  resigning  the  nominal  command  to  those  whose 
military  skill  and  high  birth  raised  a  riot  into  the  dignity  of 
rebellion,  had  given  that  consistency  and  method  to  the  rising 
which  popular  movements  never  attain  without  aristocratic  aid. 

In  the  principal  tent  of  the  encampment  the  leaders  of  the 
insurrection  were  assembled. 

There  was  Sir  John  Coniers,  who  had  married  one  of  the 
Neviles,  the  daughter  of  Fauconberg,  Lord  High  Admiral, 
but  who  had  profited  little  by  this  remote  connection  with 
Warwick  ;  for,  with  all  his  merit,  he  was  a  greedy,  grasping 
man,  and  he  had  angered  the  hot  Earl  in  pressing  his  claims 
too  imperiously.  This  renowned  knight  was  a  tall,  gaunt  man, 
whose  iron  frame  sixty  winters  had  not  bowed  ;  there  were 
the  young  heirs  of  Latimer  and  Fitzhugh,  in  gay  gilded  armor 
and  scarlet  mantelines  ;  and  there,  in  a  plain  cuirass,  trebly 
welded,  and  of  immense  weight,  but  the  lower  limbs  left  free 
and  unincumbered,  in  thick  leathern  hose,  stood  Robin  of 
Redesdale.  Other  captains  there  were,  whom  different  mo- 
tives had  led  to  the  common  confederacy.  There  might  be 
seen  the  secret  Lollard,  hating  either  Rose,  stern  or  sour,  and 
acknowledging  no  leader  but  Hilyard,  whom  he  knew  as  a 
Lollard's  son  ;  there  might  be  seen  the  ruined  spendthrift,  dis- 
contented with  fortune,  and  regarding  civil  war  as  the  cast  of 
a  die — death  for  the  forfeiture,  lordships  for  the  gain  ;  there, 
the  sturdy  Saxon  squire,  oppressed  by  the  little  baron  of  his 
province,  and  rather  hopeful  to  abase  a  neighbor  than  dethrone 
a  king,  of  whom  he  knew  little,  and  for  whom  he  cared  still 
less  ;  and  there,  chiefly  distinguished  from  the  rest  by  grizzled 
beard,  upturned  moustache,  erect  mien,  and  grave,  not  thought- 
ful aspect,  were  the  men  of  a  former  period — the  soldiers 
who  had  fought  against  the  Maid  of  Arc — now  without  place, 
station,  or  hope,  in  peaceful  times,  already  half  robbers  by 
profession,  and  decoyed  to  any  standard  that  promised  action, 
pay,  or  plunder. 

The  conclave  were  in  high  and  warm  debate. 

"If  this  be  true,"  said  Coniers,  who  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  his  helmet,  axe,  truncheon,  and  a  rough  map 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  313 

of  the  walls  of  Olney  before  him — "if  this  be  true — if  our 
scouts  are  not  deceived — if  the  Earl  of  Warwick  is  in  the  vil- 
lage, and  if  his  banner  float  beside  King  Edward's — I  say 
bluntly,  as  soldiers  should  speak,  that  I  have  been  deceived 
and  juggled  !  " 

"  And  by  whom,  Sir  Knight  and  cousin  !  "  said  the  heir  of 
Fitzhugh,  reddening. 

"  By  you,  young  kinsman,  and  this  hot-mouthed  dare-devil, 
Robin  of  Redesdale  !  Ye  assured  me,  both,  that  the  Earl  ap-, 
proved  the  rising;  that  he  permitted  the  levying  yon  troops  in 
his  name  ;  that  he  knew  well  the  time  was  come  to  declare 
against  the  Woodvilles,  and  that  no  sooner  was  an  army  mus- 
tered than  he  would  place  himself  at  its  head ;  and,  I  say,  if 
this  be  true,  you  have  brought  these  gray  hairs  into  dishonor  !  " 

"And  what,  Sir  John  Conier,"  exclaimed  Robin  rudely, 
"  what  honor  had  your  gray  hairs  till  the  steel  cap  covered 
them  ?  What  honor,  I  say,  under  lewd  Edward  and  his  lusty 
revellers  ?  You  were  thrown  aside,  like  a  broken  scythe,  Sir 
John  Coniers !  You  were  forsaken  in  your  rust !  Warwick 
himself,  your  wife's  great  kinsman,  could  do  nought  in  your 
favor !  You  stand  now,  leader  of  thousands,  lord  of  life  and 
death,  master  of  Edward  and  the  throne  !  We  have  done  this 
for  you,  and  you  reproach  us  !  " 

"And,"  began  the  heir  of  Fitzhugh,  encouraged  by  the  bold- 
ness of  Hilyard,  "we  had  all  reason  to  believe  my  noble  uncle, 
the  Earl  of  Warwick,  approved  our  emprise.  When  this  brave 
fellow  (pointing  to  Robin)  came  to  inform  me  that,  with  his 
own  eyes,  he  had  seen  the  waxen  effigies  of  my  great  kins- 
man, the  hellish  misdeed  of  the  Queen's  witch-dam.  I  repaired 
to  my  Lord  Montagu  ;  and,  though  that  prudent  courtier  re- 
fused to  declare  openly,  he  let  me  see  that  war  with  the  Wood- 
villes was  not  unwelcome  to  him." 

"  Yet  this  same  Montagu,"  observed  one  of  the  ringleaders, 
"when  Hilyard  was  well-nigh  at  the  gates  of  York,  sallied  out 
and  defeated  him,  sans  ruth,  sans  ceremony." 

"  Yes,  but  he  spared  my  life,  and  beheaded  the  dead  body 
of  poor  Hugh  Withers  in  my  stead  ;  for  John  Nevile  is  cun- 
ning, and  he  picks  his  nuts  from  the  brennen  without  lesing 
his  own  paw.  It  was  not  the  hour  for  him  to  join  us,  so  he 
beat  us  civilly,  and  with  discretion.  But  what  hath  he  done 
since  ?  He  stands  aloof  while  our  army  swells — while  the  bull 
of  the  Neviles,  and  the  ragged  staff  of  the  Earl,  are  the  en- 
signs of  our  war — and  while  Edward  gnaws  out  his  fierce  heart 
in  yon  walls  of  Olney.  How  say  ye,  then,  that  Warwick,  even 


314  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

if  now  in  person  with  the  King,  is  in  heart  against  us  ?  Nay, 
he  may  have  entered  Olney  but  to  capture  the  tyrant." 

"If  so,"  said  Coniers,  "all  is  as  it  should  be  ;  but  if  Earl 
Warwick,  who,  though  he  hath  treated  me  ill,  is  a  stour  carle, 
and  to  be  feared  if  not  loved,  join  the  King,  I  break  this  wand, 
and  ye  will  seek  out  another  captain." 

•'  And  a  captain  shall  be  found  ! "  cried  Robin.  "Are  we  so 
poor  in  valor  that  when  one  man  leaves  us  we  are  headless  and 
undone  ?  What  if  Warwick  so  betray  us  and  himself — he 
brings  no  forces.  And  never,  by  God's  blessing,  should  we 
separate,  till  we  have  redressed  the  wrongs  of  our  country- 
men !" 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  Saxon  squire,  winking  and  looking  wise — 
"  not  till  we  have  burned  to  the  ground  the  Baron  of  Bull- 
stock's  castle." 

"  Not,"  said  a  Lollard  sternly,  "  till  we  have  shortened  the 
purple  gown  of  the  churchman  ;  not  till  abbot  and  bishop  have 
felt  on  their  backs  the  whip  wherewith  they  have  scourged  the 
godly  believer  and  the  humble  saint." 

"  Not,"  added  Robin,  "till  we  have  assured  bread  to  the 
poor  man,  and  the  filling  of  the  flesh-pot,  and  the  law  to  the 
weak,  and  the  scaffold  to  the  evil-doer." 

"All  this  is  mighty  well,"  said,  bluntly,  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates, 
the  leader  of  the  mercenaries,  a  skilful  soldier,  but  a  predatory 
and  lawless  bravo,  "  but  who  is  to  pay  me  and  my  tall  fellows  ?" 

At  this  pertinent  question,  there  was  a  general  hush  of  dis- 
pleasure and  disgust. 

"  For  look  you,  my  masters,"  continued  Sir  Geoffrey,  "as 
long  as  I  and  my  comrades  here  believed  that  the  rich  Earl, 
who  hath  half  England  for  his  provant,  was  at  the  head  or  the 
tail  of  this  matter,  we  were  contented  to  wait  awhile  ;  but  devil 
a  groat  hath  yet  gone  into  my  gipsire  ;  and  as  for  pillage,  what 
is  a  farm  or  a  homestead  !  an*  it  were  a  church  or  a  castle, 
there  might  be  pickings." 

"  There  is  much  plate  of  silver,  and  a  sack  or  so  of  marks 
and  royals  in  the  stronghold  of  the  Baron  of  Bullstock,"  quoth 
the  Saxon  squire,  doggedly  hounding  on  to  his  revenge. 

"  You  see,  my  friends,"  said  Coniers,  with  a  smile,  and  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders,  "  that  men  cannot  gird  a  kingdom  with 
ropes  of  sand.  Suppose  we  conquer  and  take  captive — nay, 
or  slay  King  Edward — what  then  ?" 

"  The  Duke  of  Clarence,  male  heir  to  the  throne,"  said  the 
heir  of  Latimer,  "  is  Lord  Warwick's  son-in-law,  and  therefore 
akin  to  you,  Sir  John." 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  315 

"  That  is  true,"  observed  Corners,  musingly. 

"  Not  ill  thought  of,  sir,"  said  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates — and  my 
advice  is  to  proclaim  Clarence  king,  and  Warwick  lord  pro- 
tector. We  have  some  chance  of  the  angels  then." 

"  Besides,"  said  the  heir  of  Fitzhugh,  "  our  purpose  once 
made  clear,  it  will  be  hard  either  for  Warwick  or  Clarence  to 
go  against  us  ;  harder  still  for  the  country  not  to  believe  them 
with  us.  Bold  measures  are  our  wisest  councillors." 

"  Urn  ! "  said  the  Lollard — "  Lord  Warwick  is  a  good  man 
and  hath  never,  though  his  brother  be  a  bishop,  abetted  the 
church  tyrannies.  But  as  for  George  of  Clarence — " 

"  As  for  Clarence,"  said  Hilyard,  who  saw,  with  dismay  and 
alarm,  that  the  rebellion  he  designed  to  turn  at  the  fitting  hour 
to  the  service  of  Lancaster,  might  now  only  help  to  shift,  from 
one  shoulder  to  the  other,  the  hated  dynasty  of  York — "as  for 
Clarence,  he  hath  Edward's  vices  without  his  manhood."  He 
paused,  and  seeing  that  the  crisis  had  ripened  the  hour  for 
declaring  himself,  his  bold  temper  pushed  at  once  to  its  object. 
"  No  !  "  he  continued,  folding  his  arms,  raising  his  head,  and 
comprehending  the  whole  council  in  his  keen  and  steady 
gaze — "no  !  lords  and  gentlemen — since  speak  I  must,  in  this 
emergency,  hear  me  calmly.  Nothing  has  prospered  in  Eng- 
land since  we  abandoned  our  lawful  king.  If  we  rid  ourselves 
of  Edward,  let  it  not  be  to  sink  from  a  harlot-monger  to  a 
drunkard.  In  the  Tower  pines  our  true  lord,  already  honored 
as  a  saint.  Hear  me,  I  say — hear  me  out !  On  the  frontiers 
an  army,  that  keeps  Gloucester  at  bay,  hath  declared  for  Henry 
and  Margaret.  Let  us,  after  seizing  Olney,  march  thither  at 
once,  and  unite  forces.  Margaret  is  already  prepared  to  em- 
bark for  England.  I  have  friends  in  London  who  will  attack 
the  Tower,  and  deliver  Henry.  To  you,  Sir  John  Coniers,  in 
the  Queen's  name,  I  promise  an  earldom  and  the  garter.  To 
you,  the  heirs  of  Latimer  and  Fitzhugh,  the  high  posts  that 
beseem  your  birth  ;  to  all  of  you  knights  and  captains,  just 
share  and  allotment  in  the  confiscated  lands  of  the  Woodvilles 
and  the  Yorkists.  To  you,  brethren,"  and  addressing  the 
Lollards,  his  voice  softened  into  a  meaning  accent,  that,  com- 
pelled to  worship  in  secret,  they  yet  understood,  "  shelter  from 
your  foes,  and  mild  laws  ;  and  to  you,  brave  soldiers,  that  pay 
which  a  king's  coffers  alone  can  supply.  Wherefore  I  say, 
down  with  all  subject  banners  !  up  with  the  Red  Rose  and  the 
Antelope,  and  long  live  Henry  the  Sixth  !  " 

This  address,  however  subtle  in  its  adaptation  to  the  various 
passions  of  those  assembled,  however  aided  by  the  voice,  spirit, 


316  ±HE  LASt  Of  THE  BARONS. 

and  energy  of  the  speaker,  took  too  much  by  surprise  those 
present  to  produce  at  once  its  effect. 

The  Lollards  remembered  the  fires  lighted  for  their  martyrs 
by  the  House  of  Lancaster;  and  though  blindly  confident  in 
Hilyard,  were  not  yet  prepared  to  respond  to  his  call.  The 
young  heir  of  Fitzhugh,  who  had,  in  truth,  but  taken  arms  to 
avenge  the  supposed  wrongs  of  Warwick,  whom  he  idolized, 
saw  no  object  gained  in  the  rise  of  Warwick's  enemy — Queen 
Margaret.  The  mercenaries  called  to  mind  the  woeful  state  of 
Henry's  exchequer  in  the  former  time.  The  Saxon  squire 
muttered  to  himself :  "And  what  the  devil  is  to  become  of  the 
castle  of  Bullstock?"  But  Sir  Henry  Nevile  (Lord  Latimer's 
son)  who  belonged  to  that  branch  of  his  house  which  had 
espoused  the  Lancaster  cause,  and  who  was  in  the  secret  coun- 
cils of  Hilyard,  caught  up  the  cry,  and  said  :  "  Hilyard  doth 
not  exceed  his  powers  ;  and  he  who  strikes  for  the  Red  Rose 
shall  carve  out  his  own  lordship  from  the  manors  of  every 
Yorkist  that  he  slays  !  "  Sir  John  Coniers  hesitated  :  poor, 
long  neglected,  ever  enterprising  and  ambitious,  he  was  dazzled 
by  the  proffered  bribe — but  age  is  slow  to  act,  and  he  expressed 
himself  with  the  measured  caution  of  gray  hairs. 

"A  king's  name,"  said  he,  "is  a  tower  of  strength,  especially 
when  marching  against  a  king  ;  but  this  is  a  matter  for  gen- 
eral assent  and  grave  forethought." 

Before  any  other  (for  ideas  did  not  rush  at  once  to  words  in 
those  days)  found  his  tongue,  a  mighty  uproar  was  heard  with- 
out. It  did  not  syllable  itself  into  distinct  sound  ;  it  uttered 
no  name  ;  it  was  such  a  shout  as  numbers  alone  could  raise, 
and  to  such  a  shout  would  some  martial  leader  have  rejoiced 
to  charge  to  battle,  so  full  of  depth  and  fervor,  and  enthusiasm, 
and  good  heart,  it  seemed,  leaping  from  rank  to  rank,  from 
breast  to  breast,  from  earth  to  heaven.  With  one  accord  the 
startled  captains  made  to  the  entrance  of  the  tent,  and  there 
they  saw,  in  the  broad  space  before  them,  enclosed  by  the 
tents  which  were  grouped  in  a  wide  semicircle — for  the  mass 
of  the  hardy  rebel  army  slept  in  the  open  air,  and  the  tents 
were  but  for  leaders — they  saw,  we  say,  in  that  broad  space,  a 
multitude  kneeling,  and  in  the  midst,  upon  his  good  steed 
Saladin,  bending  graciously  down,  the  martial  countenance, 
the  lofty  stature,  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick.  Those  among  the 
captains  who  knew  him  not  personally,  recognized  him  by 
the  popular  description — by  the  black  war-horse,  whose  legen- 
dary fame  had  been  hymned  by  every  minstrel  ;  by  the  sensa- 
tion his  appearance  had  created  ;  by  the  armorial  insignia  of 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  317 

his  heralds,  grouped  behind  him,  and  whose  gorgeous  tabards 
blazed  with  his  cognizance  and  quarterings  in  azure,  or,  and 
argent.  The  sun  was  slowly  setting,  and  poured  its  rays  upon 
the  bare  head  of  the  mighty  noble,  gathering  round  it  in  the 
hazy  atmosphere  like  a  halo.  The  homage  of  the  crowd  to 
that  single  form,  unarmed,  and  scarce  attended,  struck  a  death- 
knell  to  the  hopes  of  Hilyard — struck  awe  into  all  his  com- 
rades !  The  presence  of  that  one  man  seemed  to  ravish  from 
them,  as  by  magic,  a  vast  army  ;  power  and  state  and  com- 
mand left  them  suddenly  to  be  absorbed  in  HIM  !  Captains, 
they  were  troopless — the  wielder  of  men's  hearts  was  amongst 
them,  and  from  his  barb  assumed  reign,  as  from  his  throne  ! 

"  Gads,  my  life  !  "  said  Coniers,  turning  to  his  comrades, 
"  we  have  now,  with  a  truth,  the  Earl  amongst  us  ;  but,  unless 
he  come  to  lead  us  on  to  Olney,  I  would  as  lief  see  the  King's 
provost  at  my  shoulder." 

"  The  crowd  separates — he  rides  this  way  !  "  said  the  heir 
of  Fitzhugh.  "  Shall  we  go  forth  to  meet  him  ?  " 

"Not  so  !  "  exclaimed  Hilyard,  "  we  are  still  the  leaders  of 
this  army  ;  let  him  find  us  deliberating  on  the  siege  of 
Olney  !  " 

"  Right  !  "  said  Coniers  ;  "  and  if  there  come  dispute,  let 
not  the  rabble  hear  it." 

The  captains  re-entered  the  tent,  and  in  grave  silence 
awaited  the  Earl's  coming ;  nor  was  this  suspense  long. 
Warwick,  leaving  the  multitude  in  the  rear,  and  taking  only 
one  of  the  spbaltern  officers  in  the  rebel  camp  as  his  guide 
and  usher,  arrived  at  the  tent,  and  was  admitted  into  the 
council. 

The  captains,  Hilyard  alone  excepted,  bowed  with  great 
reverence  as  the  Earl  entered. 

"  Welcome,  puissant  sir,  and  illustrious  kinsman  ! "  said 
Coniers,  who  had  decided  on  the  line  to  be  adopted — "  you 
are  come  at  last  to  take  the  command  of  the  troops  raised  in 
your  name,  and  into  your  hands  I  resign  this  truncheon." 

"  I  accept  it,  Sir  John  Coniers,"  answered  Warwick,  taking  the 
place  of  dignity  ;  "  and  since  you  thus  constitute  me  your 
commander,  I  proceed  at  once  to  my  stern  duties.  How  hap- 
pens it,  knights  and  gentlemen,  that  in  my  absence  ye  have 
dared  to  make  my  name  the  pretext  of  rebellion  ?  Speak 
thou,  my  sister's  son  !  " 

"  Cousin  and  lord,"  said  the  heir  of  Fitzhugh,  reddening, 
hut  not  abashed,  "  we  could  not  believe  but  what  you  would 
smile  on  those  who  have  risen  to  assert  your  wrongs  and 


318  THE    LAST    OF    THE    1JARONS. 

defend  your  life."  And  he  then  briefly  related  the  tale  of  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford's  waxen  effigies,  and  pointed  to  Hilyard 
as  the  eye-witness. 

"And,"  began  Sir  Henry  Neville,  "you,  meanwhile,  were 
banished,  seemingly,  from  the  King's  court  ;  the  dissensions 
between  you  and  Edward  sufficiently  the  land's  talk — thf; 
King's  vices,  the  land's  shame  !  " 

"  Nor  did  we  act  without  at  least  revealing  our  intentions  to 
my  uncle  and  your  brother,  the  Lord  Montagu,"  added  the  heir 
of  Fitzhugh. 

"  Meanwhile,"  said  Robin  of  Redesdale,  "  the  Commons 
were  oppressed,  the  people  discontented,  the  Woodvilles 
plundering  us,  and  the  King  wasting  our  substance  on  concu- 
bines and  minions.  We  have  had  cause  eno'  for  our  rising  !  " 

The  Earl  listened  to  each  speaker  in  stern  silence, 

"  For  all  this,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  you  have,  without  my  leave 
or  sanction,  levied  armed  men  in  my  name,  and  would  have 
made  Richard  Neville  seem  to  Europe  a  traitor,  without  the 
courage  to  be  a  rebel  !  Your  lives  are  in  my  power,  and  those 
lives  are  forfeit  to  the  laws." 

"  If  we  have  incurred  your  disfavor  from  our  over-zeal  for 
you,"  said  the  son  of  Lord  Fitzhugh  touchingly,  "  take  our 
lives,  for  they  are  of  little  worth."  And  the  young  nobleman 
unbuckled  his  sword,  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"  But,"  resumed  Warwick,  not  seeming  to  heed  his  nephew's 
humility,  "  I,  who  have  ever  loved  the  people  of  England,  and 
before  King  and  Parliament  have  ever  pleaded«their  cause — 
I,  as  captain-general  and  first  officer  of  these  realms,  here 
declare,  that  whatever  motives  of  ambition  or  interest  may 
have  misled  men  of  mark  and  birth,  I  believe  that  the  Com- 
mons at  least  never  rise  in  arms  without  some  excuse  for  their 
error.  Speak  out  then,  you,  their  leaders  ;  and  putting  aside 
all  that  relates  to  me  as  the  one  man,  say  what  are  the  griev- 
ances of  which  the  many  would  complain." 

And  now  there  was  silence,  for  the  knights  and  gentlemen 
knew  little  of  the  complaints  of  the  populace  ;  the  Lollards 
did  not  dare  to  expose  their  oppressed  faith,  and  the  squires 
and  franklins  were  too  uneducated  to  detail  the  grievances 
they  had  felt.  But  then,  the  immense  superiority  of  the  man 
of  the  people  at  once  asserted  itself  ;  and  Hilyard,  whose  eye 
the  Earl  had  hitherto  shunned,  lifted  his  deep  voice.  With 
clear  precision,  in  indignant,  but  not  declamatory  eloquence, 
he  painted  the  disorders  of  the  time  :  the  insolent  exactions  of 
the  hospitals  and  abbeys  ;  the  lawless  violence  of  each  petty 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  319 

baron  ;  the  weakness  of  the  royal  authority  in  restraining 
oppression  ;  its  terrible  power  in  aiding  the  oppressor.  He 
accumulated  instance  on  instance  of  misrule  ;  he  showed  the 
insecurity  of  property  ;  the  adulteration  of  the  coin  ;  the  bur- 
den of  the  imposts  ;  he  spoke  of  wives  and  maidens  violated  ; 
of  industry  defrauded  ;  of  houses  forcibly  entered  ;  of  barns 
and  granaries  despoiled  ;  of  the  impunity  of  all  offenders,  if 
high-born  ;  of  the  punishment  of  all  complaints,  if  poor  and 
lowly.  "  Tell  us  not,"  he  said,  "  that  this  is  the  necessary  evil 
of  the  times,  the  hard  condition  of  mankind  !  It  was  other- 
wise, Lord  Warwick,  when  Edward  first  swayed  ;  ior you  then 
made  yourself  dear  to  the  people  by  your  justice.  Still  men 
talk,  hereabouts,  of  the  golden  rule  of  Earl  Warwick  ;  but 
since  you  have  been,  though  great  in  office,  powerless  in  deed, 
absent  in  Calais,  or  idle  at  Middleham,  England  hath  been  but 
the  plaything  of  the  Woodvilles,  and  the  King's  ears  have  been 
stuffed  with  flattery  as  with  wool.  And,"  continued  Hilyard, 
warming  with  his  subject,  and,  to  the  surprise  of  the  Lollards, 
entering  boldly  on  their  master-grievance — "  and  this  is  not  all. 
When  Edward  ascended  the  throne,  there  was,  if  not  justice, 
at  least  repose,  for  the  persecuted  believers  who  hold  that 
God's  word  was  given  to  man  to  read,  study,  and  digest  into 
godly  deeds.  I  speak  plainly.  I  speak  of  that  faith  which 
your  great  father,  Salisbury,  and  many  of  the  house  of  York, 
were  believed  to  favor — that  faith  which  is  called  the  Lollard, 
and  the  oppression  of  which,  more  than  aught  else,  lost  to 
Lancaster  the  hearts  of  England.  But  of  late,  the  Church 
assuming  the  power  it  ever  grasps  the  most  under  the  most 
licentious  kings  (for  the  sinner  prince  hath  ever  the  tyrant 
priest),  hath  put  in  vigor  old  laws,  for  the  wronging  of  man's 
thought  and  conscience  ;  *  and  we  sit  at  our  doors  under  the 
shade,  not  of  the  vine-tree,  but  the  gibbet.  For  all  these 
things  we  have  drawn  the  sword  ;  and  if  now,  you,  taking 
advantage  of  the  love  borne  to  you  by  the  sons  of  England, 
push  the  sword  back  into  its  sheath,  you,  generous,  great,  and 
princely  though  you  be,  well  deserve  the  fate  that  I  can  fore- 
see and  can  foretell.  Yes  !  "  cried  the  speaker,  extending  his 
arms,  and  gazing  fixedly  on  the  proud  face  of  the  Earl,  which 
was  not  inexpressive  of  emotion — "  yes  !  I  see  you,  having 
deserted  the  people,  deserted  by  them  also,  in  you  need — I  see 
you,  the  dupe  of  an  ungrateful  king,  stripped  of  power  and 

*  The  Lollards  had  greatly  contributed  to  seat  Edward  on  the  throne  ;  and  much  of  the 
subsequent  discontent,  no  doubt,  arose  from  their  disappointmenf ,  when,  as  Sharon  Turner 
well  expresses  it,  "  his  indolence  allied  him  to  the  Church";  and  he  became  "  hereti' 
cot  unt  severiaimus  befits."— Croyl.,  p.  564. 


320  THE    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

honor,  an  exile  and  an  outlaw  ;  and  when  you  call  in  vain  upon 
the  people,  in  whose  hearts  you  now  reign,  remember,  O  rallen 
star,  son  of  the  morning  !  thnt  in  the  hour  of  their  might  you 
struck  down  the  people's  right  arm,  and  paralyzed  their  power. 
And  now,  if  you  will,  let  your  friends  and  England's  cham- 
pions glut  the  scaffolds  of  your  woman-king  !  " 

He  ceased  ;  a  murmur  went  round  the  conclave  ;  every 
breast  breathed  hard,  every  eye  turned  to  Warwick.  That 
mighty  statesman  mastered  the  effect  which  the  thrilling  voice 
of  the  popular  pleader  produced  on  him  ;  but  at  that  moment 
he  had  need  of  all  his  frank  and  honorable  loyalty  to  remind 
him  that  he  was  there  but  to  fulfil  a  promise  and  discharge  a 
trust — that  he  was  the  King's  delegate,  not  the  King's  judge. 

"  You  have  spoken,  bold  men,"  said  he,  "  as,  in  an  hour  when 
the  rights  of  princes  are  weighed  in  one  scale,  the  subjects' 
swords  in  the  other,  I,  were  I  King,  would  wish  free  men  to 
speak.  And  now  you,  Robert  Hilyard,  and  you,  gentlemen, 
hear  me,  an  envoy  to  King  Edward  IV.  To  all  of  you  I 
promise  complete  amnesty  and  entire  pardon.  His  Highness 
believes  you  misled,  and  not  criminal,  and  your  late  deeds  will 
not  be  remembered  in  your  future  services.  So  much  for  the 
leaders.  Now  for  the  commons.  My  liege  the  King  is  pleased 
to  recall  me  to  the  high  powers  I  once  exercised,  and  to  increase 
rather  than  to  lessen  them.  In  his  name,  I  pledge  myself  to 
full  and  strict  inquiry  into  all  the  grievances  Robin  of  Redes- 
dale  hath  set  forth,  with  a  view  to  speedy  and  complete  redress. 
Nor  is  this  all.  His  Highness,  laying  aside  his  purpose  of  war 
with  France,  will  have  less  need  of  imposts  on  his  subjects, 
and  the  burdens  and  taxes  will  be  reduced.  Lastly — His 
Grace,  ever  anxious  to  content  his  people,  hath  most  benignly 
empowered  me  to  promise  that,  whether  or  not  ye  rightly  judge 
the  Queen's  kindred,  they  will  no  longer  have  part  or  weight 
in  the  King's  councils.  The  Duchess  of  Bedford,  as  beseems 
a  lady  so  sorrowfully  widowed,  will  retire  to  her  own  home  ; 
and  the  Lord  Scales  will  fulfil  a  mission  to  the  Court  of  Spain. 
Thus,  then,  assenting  to  all  reasonable  demands — promising  to 
heal  all  true  grievances — proffering  you  gracious  pardon — I 
discharge  my  duty  to  King  and  to  people.  I  pray  that  these 
unhappy  sores  may  be  healed  evermore,  under  the  blessing  of 
God  and  our  patron  saint ;  and  in  the  name  of  Edward  IV., 
Lord  Suzerain  of  England  and  France,  I  break  up  this  trun- 
cheon and  disband  this  army  !  " 

Among  those  present,  this  moderate  and  wise  address  pro- 
duced a  general  sensation  of  relief ;  for  the  Earl's  disavowal  of 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  321 

the  revolt  took  away  all  hope  of  its  success.  But  the  common 
approbation  was  not  shared  by  Hilyard.  He  sprang  upon  the 
table,  and  seizing  the  broken  fragments  of  the  truncheon  which 
the  Earl  had  snapped  as  a  willow  twig,  exclaimed  :  "  And  thus, 
in  the  name  of  the  people,  I  seize  the  command  that  ye  un- 
worthily resign  !  Oh,  yes,  what  fools  were  yonder  drudges  of 
the  hard  hand  and  the  grimed  brow,  and  the  leather  jerkin,  to 
expect  succor  from  knight  or  noble  !  " 

So  saying,  he  bounded  from  the  tent,  and  rushed  towards  the 
multitude  at  the  distance. 

"  Ye,  knights  and  lords,  men  of  blood  and  birth,  were  but  the 
tools  of  a  manlier  and  wiser  Cade  !  "  said  Warwick  calmly. 
"  Follow  me  !  " 

The  Earl  strode  from  the  tent,  sprang  on  his  steed,  and  was 
in  the  midst  of  the  troops  with  his  heralds  by  his  side,  ere  Hil- 
yard had  been  enabled  to  begin  the  harangue  he  had  intended. 
Warwick's  trumpets  sounded  to  silence  ;  and  the  Earl  himself, 
in  his  loud,  clear  voice,  briefly  addressed  the  immense  audience. 
Master,  scarcely  less  than  Hilyard,  of  the  popular  kind  of  elo- 
quence, which — short,  plain,  generous  and  simple — cuts  its  way 
at  once  through  the  feelings  to  the  policy,  Warwick  briefly  but 
forcibly  recapitulated  to  the  commons  the  promises  he  had 
made  to  the  captains  ;  and  as  soon  as  they  heard  of  taxes  re- 
moved, the  coinage  reformed,  the  corn  thrave  abolished,  the 
Woodvilles  dismissed,  and  the  Earl  recalled  to  power,  the 
rebellion  was  at  an  end.  They  answered  with  a  joyous  shout 
his  order  to  disperse  and  retire  to  their  homes  forthwith.  But 
the  indomitable  Hilyard,  ascending  a  small  eminence,  began 
his  counter-agitation.  The  Earl  saw  his  robust  form  and 
waving  hand  ;  he  saw  the  crowd  sway  towards  him  ;  and,  too 
well  acquainted  with  mankind  to  suffer  his  address,  he  spurred 
to  the  spot,  and  turning  to  Marmaduke,  said,  in  a  loud 
voice  :  "  Marmaduke  Nevile,  arrest  that  man  in  the  King's 
name  !" 

Marmaduke  sprang  from  his  steed,  and  laid  his  hand  on 
Hilyard's  shoulder.  Not  one  of  the  multitude  stirred  on 
behalf  of  their  demagogue.  As  before  the  sun  recede  the 
stars,  all  lesser  lights  had  died  in  the  blazie  of  Warwick's  beloved 
name.  Hilyard  griped  his  dagger,  and  struggled  an  instant  ; 
but  when  he  saw  the  awe  and  apathy  of  the  armed  mob  a 
withering  expression  of  disdain  passed  over  his  hardy  face. 

"  Do  ye  suffer  this  ?  "  he  said.  "  Do  ye  suffer  me,  who  have 
placed  swords  in  your  hands,  to  go  forth  in  bonds  and  to  the 
death?" 


322  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"  The  stout  Earl  wrongs  no  man,"  said  a  single  voice,  and 
the  populace  echoed  the  word. 

"  Sir,  then,  I  care  not  for  life,  since  liberty  is  gone.  I  yield 
myself  your  prisoner." 

"A  horse  for  my  captive  !  "  said  Warwick,  laughing — "and 
hear  me  promise  you,  that  he  shall  go  unscathed  in  goods  and 
in  limbs.  God  wot,  when  Warwick  and  the  people  meet,  no 
victim  should  be  crucified !  Hurrah  for  King  Edward  and 
fair  England  ! " 

He  waved  his  plumed  cap  as  he  spoke,  and  within  the  walls 
of  Olney  was  heard  the  shout  that  answered. 

Slowly  the  Earl  and  his  scanty  troop  turned  the  rein  ;  as  he 
receded,  the  multitude  broke  up  rapidly,  and  when  the  moon 
rose,  that  camp  was  a  solitude  !  * 

Such — for  our  nature  is  ever  grander  in  the  individual  than 
in  the  mass — such  is  the  power  of  man  above  mankind  ! 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  NORMAN  EARL  AND  THE  SAXON  DEMAGOGUE  CONFER. 

ON  leaving  the  camp  Warwick  rode  in  advance  of  his  train, 
and  his  countenance  was  serious  and  full  of  thought.  At 
length,  as  a  turn  in  the  road  hid  the  little  band  from  the  view 
of  the  rebels,  the  Earl  motioned  to  Marmaduke  to  advance 
with  his  prisoner.  The  young  Nevile  then  fell  back,  and 
Robin  and  Warwick  rode  breast  to  breast,  out  of  hearing  of 
the  rest. 

"  Master  Hilyard,  I  am  well  content  that  my  brother,  when 
you  fell  into  his  hands,  spared  your  life,  out  of  gratitude  for  the 
favor  you  once  showed  to  mine." 

"Your  noble  brother,  my  lord,"  answered  Robin  dryly,  "is 
perhaps,  not  aware  of  the  service  I  once  rendered  you.  Me- 
thinks  he  spared  me  rather,  because,  without  me,  an  enterprise 
which  has  shaken  the  Woodvilles  from  their  roots  around  the 
throne,  and  given  back  England  to  the  Neviles,  had  been  nipped 
in  the  bud  !  Your  brother  is  a  deep  thinker  !  " 

"  I  grieve  to  hear  thee  speak  thus  of  the  Lord  Montagu.  I 
know  that  he  hath  wilier  devices  than  become,  in  my  eyes,  a 
well-born  knight  and  a  sincere  man  ;  but  he  loves  his  King, 

*  The  dispersion  of  the  rebels  at  Olney  is  forcibly  narrated  by  a  few  sentences,  graphic 
from  their  brief  simplicity,  in  the  "  Pictorial  History  of  England.,"  book  v.,  p.  104.  "  They 
(Warwick,  etc.)  repaired  in  a  very  friendly  manner  to  Olney,  where  they  found  JEdward  in 
a  most  unhappy  condition:  his  friends  were  dead  or  scattered,  flying  for  their 'ives,  or 
hiding  themselves  in  remote  places  :  the  insurgents  were  almost  upon  him.  A  word  f rent 
Warwick  stnt  the  insurgents  quietly  tack  to  the  Nortk" 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  323 

and  his  ends  are  juster  than  his  means.  Master  Hilyard, 
enough  of  the  past  evil.  Some  months  after  the  field  of  Hexham, 
I  chanced  to  fall,  when  alone,  amongst  a  band  of  roving  and 
fierce  Lancastrian  outlaws.  Thou,  their  leader,  recognizing 
the  crest  on  my  helm,  and  mindful  of  some  slight  indulgence 
once  shown  to  thy  strange  notions  of  republican  liberty,  didst 
save  me  from  the  swords  of  thy  followers  :  from  that  time  I 
have  sought  in  vain  to  mend  thy  fortunes.  Thou  hast  re- 
jected all  mine  offers,  and  I  know  well  that  thou  hast  lent  thy 
service  to  the  fatal  cause  of  Lancaster.  Many  a  time  I  might 
have  given  thee  to  the  law,  but  gratitude  for  thy  aid  in  the 
needful  strait,  and  to  speak  sooth,  my  disdain  of  all  individual 
efforts  to  restore  a  fallen  house,  made  me  turn  my  eyes  from 
transgressions  which,  once  made  known  to  the  King,  had 
placed  thee  beyond  pardon.  I  see  now  that  thou  art  a  man  of 
head  and  arm  to  bring  great  danger  upon  nations  :  and  though 
this  time  Warwick  bids  thee  escape  and  live,  if  once  more  thou 
offend  know  me  only  as  the  King's  minister.  The  debt  be- 
tween us  is  now  cancelled.  Yonder  lies  the  path  that  con- 
ducts to  the  forest.  Farewell.  Yet  stay  ! — poverty  may  have 
led  thee  into  treason." 

"  Poverty,"  interrupted  Hilyard — "  poverty,  Lord  Warwick, 
leads  men  to  sympathize  with  the  poor,  and  therefore  I  have 
done  with  riches."  He  paused,  and  his  breast  heaved.  "  Yet," 
he  added  sadly,  "  now  that  I  have  seen  the  cowardice  and  in- 
gratitude of  men,  my  calling  seems  over,  and  my  spirit  crushed." 

"  Alas  !  "  said  Warwick,  "  whether  man  be  rich  or  poor,  in- 
gratitude is  the  vice  of  men  ;  and  you,  who  have  felt  it  from 
the  mob,  menace  me  with  it  from  a  king.  But  each  must 
carve  out  his  own  way  through  this  earth  without  over-care 
for  applause  or  blame  ;  and  the  tomb  is  the  sole  judge  of  mor- 
tal memory  !  " 

Robin  looked  hard  at  the  Earl's  face,  which  was  dark  and 
gloomy,  as  he  thus  spoke,  and  approaching  nearer,  he  said  : 
"  Lord  Warwick,  I  take  from  you  liberty  and  life  the  more 
willingly,  because  a  voice  I  cannot  mistake  tells  me,  and  hath 
long  told,  that,  sooner  or  later,  time  will  bind  us  to  each  other. 
Unlike  other  nobles,  you  have  owed  your  power  not  so  much 
to  lordship,  land,  and  birth,  and  a  king's  smile,  as  to  the  love 
you  have  nobly  won  ;  you  alone,  true  knight  and  princely  Chris- 
tian— you  alone  in  war,  have  spared  the  humble — you  alone, 
stalwart  and  resistless  champion,  have  directed  your  lance 
against  your  equals,  and  your  order  hath  gone  forth  to  the 
fierce  of  heart — '  Never  smite  the  Commons  !  '  In  peace,  you 


324  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

alone  have  stood  up  in  your  haughty  Parliament  for  just  law  ot 
for  gentle  mercy  ;  your  castle  hath  had  a  board  for  the  hun- 
gry, and  a  shelter  for  the  houseless  ;  your  pride,  which  hath 
bearded  kings  and  humbled  upstarts,  hath  never  had  a  taunt 
for  the  lowly  ;  and  therefore  I — son  of  the  people — in  the  peo- 
ple's name,  bless  you  living,  and  sigh  to  ask  whether  a  people's 
gratitude  will  mourn  you  dead  !  Beware  Edward's  false  smile — 
beware  Clarence's  fickle  faith — beware  Gloucester's  inscrutable 
wile.  Mark,  the  sun  sets  ! — and  while  we  speak,  yon  dark 
cloud  gathers  over  your  plumed  head." 

He  pointed  to  the  heavens  as  he  ceased,  and  a  low  roll  of 
gathering  thunder  seemed  to  answer  his  ominous  warning. 
Without  tarrying  for  the  Earl's  answer,  Hilyard  shook  the 
reins  of  his  steed,  and  disappeared  in  the  winding  of  the  lane 
through  which  he  took  his  way. 


CHAPTER  V. 

WHAT    FAITH    EDWARD    IV.    PURPOSETH    TO     KEEP     WITH    EARL 
AND    PEOPLE. 

EDWARD  received  his  triumphant  envoy  with  open  arms  and 
profuse  expressions  of  gratitude.  He  exerted  himself  to  the 
utmost  in  the  banquet  that  crowned  the  day,  not  only  to  con- 
ciliate the  illustrious  newcomers,  but  to  remove  from  the 
minds  of  Raoul  de  Fulke  and  his  officers  all  memory  of  their 
past  disaffection.  No  gift  is  rarer  or  more  successful  in  the 
intrigues  of  life  than  that  which  Edward  eminently  possessed, 
viz.,  the  hypocrisy  of  frankness  ;  dissimulation  is  often  humble  ; 
often  polished  ;  often  grave,  sleek,  smooth,  decorous  ;  but  it  is 
rarely  gay  and  jovial,  a  hearty  laugher,  a  merry,  cordial,  boon 
companion.  Such,  however,  was  the  felicitous  craft  of  Edward 
IV.;  and,  indeed  his  spirits  were  naturally  so  high,  his  good 
humor  so  flowing,  that  this  joyous  hypocrisy  cost  him  no  effort. 
Elated  at  the  dispersion  of  his  foes — at  the  prospect  of  his  return 
to  his  ordinary  life  of  pleasure — there  was  something  so  kindly 
and  so  winning  in  his  mirth,  that  he  subjugated  entirely  the  fiery 
temper  of  Raoul  de  Fulke  and  the  steadier  suspicions  of  the 
more  thoughtful  St.  John.  Clarence,  wholly  reconciled  to  Ed- 
ward, gazed  on  him  with  eyes  swimming  with  affection,  and  soon 
drank  himself  into  uproarious  joviality.  The  Archbishop,  more 
reserved,  still  animated  the  society  by  the  dry  and  epigram- 
matic wit  not  uncommon  to  his  learned  and  subtle  mind  ;  but 
Warwick  in  vain  endeavored  to  shake  off  an  uneasy,  ominous 


THE   LAST   OF   THE    BARONS.  325 

gloom.  He  was  not  satisfied  with  Edward's  avoidance  of  dis- 
cussion upon  the  grave  matters  involved  in  the  Earl's  promise 
to  the  insurgents,  and  his  masculine  spirit  regarded  with 
some  disdain,  and  more  suspicion,  a  levity  that  he  consid- 
ered ill-suited  to  the  emergence. 

The  banquet  was  over,  and  Edward,  having  dismissed  his 
other  attendants,  was  in  his  chamber  with  Lord  Hastings, 
whose  office  always  admitted  him  to  the  wardrobe  of  the  King. 

Edward's  smile  had  now  left  his  lip  ;  he  paced  the  room 
with  a  hasty  stride,  and  then,  suddenly  opening  the  casement, 
pointed  to  the  landscape  without,- which  lay  calm  and  suffused 
in  moonlight. 

"Hastings,"  said  he  abruptly,  "a  few  hours  since,  and  the 
earth  grew  spears  !  Behold  the  landscape  now  ! " 

"So  vanish  all  the  King's  enemies  !  " 

"  Ay,  man,  ay — if*  at  the  King's  word,  or  before  the  King's 
battle-axe  ;  but  at  a  subject's  command —  No,  I  am  not  a 
king,  while  another  scatters  armies  in  my  realm,  at  his  bare 
will.  'Fore  Heaven,  this  shall  not  last !  " 

Hastings  regarded  the  countenance  of  Edward,  changed 
from  affable  beauty  into  terrible  fierceness,  with  reflections  sug- 
gested by  his  profound  and  mournful  wisdom.  "  How  little 
a  man's  virtues  profit  him  in  the  eyes  of  men  !  "  thought  he. 
"  The  subject  saves  the  crown,  and  the  crown's  wearer  never 
pardons  the  presumption  !  " 

"  You  do  not  speak,  sir  !  "  exclaimed  Edward,  irritated  and 
impatient.  "  Why  gaze  you  thus  on  me  !  " 

"  Beau  sire,"  returned  the  favorite  calmly,  "  I  was  seeking 
to  discover  if  your  pride  spoke,  or  your  nobler  nature." 

"  Tush  !  "  said  the  King  petulantly — "  the  noblest  part  of  a 
king's  nature  is  his  pride  as  king  !  "  Again  he  strode  the 
chamber,  and  again  halted.  "  But  the  Earl  hath  fallen  into 
his  own  snare — he  hath  promised  in  my  name  what  I  will 
not  perform.  Let  the  people  learn  that  their  idol  hath  de- 
ceived them.  He  asks  me  to  dismiss  from  the  court  the 
Queen's  mother  and  kindred  ! " 

Hastings,  who  in  this  went  thoroughly  with  the  Earl  and  the 
popular  feeling,  and  whose  only  enemies  in  England  were  the 
Woodvilles,  replied  simply  : 

"These  are  cheap  terms,  sire,  for  a  king's  life,  and  the 
crown  of  England." 

Edward  started,  and  his  eyes  flashed  that  cold,  cruel  fire, 
which  makes  eyes  of  a  light  coloring  so  far  more  expressive  of 
terrible  passions  than  the  quicker  and  warmer  heat  of  dark 


326  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

orbs.  "  Think  you  so,  sir  ?  By  God's  blood,  he  who  proffered 
them  shall  repent  it  in  every  vein  of  his  body  !  Harkye,  Will- 
iam Hastings  de  Hastings,  I  know  you  to  be  a  deep  and 
ambitious  man  ;  but  better  for  you,  had  you  covered  that 
learned  brain  under  the  cowl  of  a  mendicant  friar,  than  lent 
one  thought  to  the  councils  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick." 

Hastings,  who  felt  even  to  fondness  the  affection  which 
Edward  generally  inspired  in  those  about  his  person,  and  who, 
far  from  sympathizing,  except  in  hate  of  the  Woodvilles,  with 
the  Earl,  saw  that  beneath  that  mighty  tree  no  new  plants 
could  push  into  their  fullest  foliage,  reddened  with  anger  at 
this  imperious  menace. 

"My  liege,"  said  he,  with  becoming  dignity  and  spirit,  "if 
you  can  thus  address  your  most  tried  confidant  and  your  leaJ. 
est  friend,  your  most  dangerous  enemy  is  yourself." 

" Stay,  man,"  said  the  King,  softening,'"!  was  over-warm, 
but  the  wild  beast  within  me  is  chafed.  Would  Gloucester 
were  here !  " 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  would  be  the  counsels  of  that  wise 
young  Prince,  for  I  know  his  mind,"  answered  Hastings. 

"  Ay,  he  and  you  love  each  other  well.     Speak  out." 

"  Prince  Richard  is  a  great  reader  of  Italian  lere.  He  saith 
that  those  small  states  are  treasuries  of  all  experience.  From 
that  lere  Prince  Richard  would  say  to  you  :  '  Where  a  subject 
is  so  great  as  to  be  feared,  and  too  much  beloved  to  be  de- 
stroyed, the  King  must  remember  how  Tarpeia  was  crushed.' " 

"  I  remember  naught  of  Tarpeia,  and  I  detest  parables." 

"  Tarpeia,  sire  (it  is  a  story  of  old  Rome),  was  crushed  under 
the  weight  of  presents.  Oh,  my  liege,"  continued  Hastings, 
warming  with  that  interest  which  an  able  man  feels  in  his  own 
superior  art,  "  were  I  king  for  a  year,  by  the  end  of  it  Warwick 
should  be  the  most  unpopular  (and  therefore  the  weakest)  lord 
in  England  !  " 

"And  how,  O  wise  in  thine  own  conceit?" 

"  Beau  sire"  resumed  Hastings,  not  heeding  the  rebuke — 
and  strangely  enough  he  proceeded  to  point  out,  as  the  means 
of  destroying  the  Earl's  influence,  the  very  method  that  the 
Archbishop  had  detailed  to  Montagu,  as  that  which  would 
make  the  influence  irresistible  and  permanent;  "Beau  sire" 
resumed  Hastings,  "Lord  Warwick  is  beloved  by  the  people, 
because  they  consider  him  maltreated  ;  he  is  esteemed  by  the 
people,  because  they  consider  him  above  all  bribe  ;  he  is  ven- 
erated by  the  people,  because  they  believe  that  in  all  their 
comp!a;nts  and  struggles  he  is  independent  (he  alone)  of  the 


THfc    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  327 

King.  Instead  of  love,  I  would  raise  envy  ;  for  instead  of 
cold  countenance  I  would  heap  him  with  grace.  Instead  of 
esteem  and  veneration  I  would  raise  suspicion,  for  I  would  so 
knit  him  to  your  house,  that  he  could  not  stir  hand  or  foot 
against  you  ;  I  would  make  his  heirs  your  brothers.  The 
Duke  of  Clarence  hath  married  one  daughter — wed  the  other 
to  Lord  Richard.  Betroth  your  young  Princess  to  Montagu's 
son,  the  representative  of  all  the  Neviles.  The  Earl's  im- 
mense possessions  must  thus  ultimately  pass  to  your  own 
kindred.  The  Earl  himself  will  be  no  longer  a  power  apart 
from  the  throne,  but  a  part  of  it.  The  barons  will  chafe 
against  one  who  half-ceases  to  be  of  their  order,  and  yet  monopo- 
lizes their  dignities ;  the  people  will  no  longer  see  in  the  Earl 
their  champion,  but  a  king's  favorite  and  deputy.  Neither 
barons  nor  people  will  flock  to  his  banner." 

"All  this  is  well  and  wise,"  said  Edward,  musing;  "but 
meanwhile  my  Queen's  blood — am  I  to  reign  in  a  solitude  ? — 
for  look  you  Hastings,  you  know  well  that,  uxorious  as  fools 
have  deemed  me,  I  had  purpose  and  design  in  the  elevation  of 
new  families  ;  I  wished  to  raise  a  fresh  nobility  to  counteract 
the  pride  of  the  old,  and  only  upon  new  nobles  can  a  new 
dynasty  rely." 

"  My  lord,  I  will  not  anger  you  again  ;  but  still,  for  a  while, 
the  Queen's  relations  will  do  well  to  retire." 

"  Good-night,  Hastings,"  interrupted  Edward  abruptly, 
"  my  pillow  in  this  shall  be  my  counsellor." 

Whatever  the  purpose  solitude  and  reflection  might  ripen  in 
the  King's  mind,  he  was  saved  from  immediate  decision  by 
news,  the  next  morning,  of  fresh  outbreaks.  The  Commons 
had  risen  in  Lincolnshire  and  the  county  of  Warwick  ;  and 
Anthony  Woodville  wrote  word  that,  if  the  King  would  but 
show  himself  among  the  forces  he  had  raised  near  Coventry, 
all  the  gentry  around  would  rise  against  the  rebellious  rabble. 
Seizing  advantage  of  these  tidings,  borne  to  him  by  his  own 
couriers,  and  eager  to  escape  from  the  uncertain  soldiery  quar- 
tered at  Olney,  Edward,  without  waiting  to  consult  even  with 
the  Earl,  sprang  to  horse,  and  his  trumpets  were  the  first  signal 
of  departure  that  he  deigned  to  any  one. 

This  want  of  ceremony  displeased  the  pride  of  Warwick  ; 
but  he  made  no  complaint,  and  took  his  place  by  the  King's 
side,  when  Edward  said  shortly  : 

"  Dear  cousin,  this  is  a  time  that  needs  all  our  energies.  I 
ride  towards  Coventry,  to  give  head  and  heart  to  the  raw  re- 
cruits I  shall  find  there  ;  but  I  pray  you  and  the  Archbishop  to 


328  THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

use  all  means  in  this  immediate  district,  to  raise  fresh  troops  ; 
for  at  your  name  armed  men  spring  up  from  pasture  and  glebe, 
dyke  and  hedge.  Join  what  troops  you  can  collect  in  three 
days  with  mine  at  Coventry,  and,  ere  the  sickle  is  in  the  harvest, 
England  shall  be  at  peace.  God  speed  you !  Ho !  there, 
gentlemen,  away  ! — d  franc  ttrier!" 

Without  pausing  for  reply — for  he  wished  to  avoid  all 
questioning,  les"t  Warwick  might  discover  that  it  was  to  a  Wood- 
ville  that  he  was  bound — the  King  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and, 
while  his  men  were  yet  hurrying  to  and  fro,  rode  on  almost 
alone,  and  was  a  good  mile  out  of  the  town  before  the  force 
led  by  St.  John  and  Raoul  de  Fulke,  and  followed  by  Hastings, 
who  held  no  command,  overtook  him. 

"I  misthink  the  King,"  said  Warwick  gloomily,  "but  my 
word  is  pledged  to  the  people,  and  it  shall  be  kept !  " 

"A  man's  word  is  best  kept  when  his  arm  is  the  strongest," 
said  the  sententious  Archbishop  ;  "  yesterday,  you  dispersed 
an  army  :  to-day,  raise  one  !  " 

Warwick  answered  not,  but,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
beckoned  to  Marmaduke. 

"  Kinsman,"  said  he,  "  spur  on,  with  ten  of  my  little  company, 
to  join  the  King.  Report  to  me  if  any  of  the  Woodvilles  be  in 
his  camp  near  Coventry." 

"  Whither  shall  I  send  the  report?" 

"  To  my  castle  of  Warwick  !  " 

Marmaduke  bowed  his  head,  and  accustomed  to  the  brevity  of 
the  Earl's  speech,  proceeded  to  the  task  enjoined  him.  War- 
wick next  summoned  his  second  squire. 

"My  lady  and  her  children,"  said  he,  "are  on  their  way  to 
Middleham.  This  paper  will  instruct  you  of  their  progress. 
Join  them  with  all  the  rest  of  my  troop,  except  my  heralds  and 
trumpeters  ;  and  say  that  I  shall  meet  them  ere  long  at  Middle- 
ham." 

"It  is  a  strange  way  to  raise  an  army,  '  said  the  Archbishop 
dryly,  "  to  begin  by  getting  rid  of  all  the  force  one  possesses  !  " 

"Brother,"  answered  the  Earl.  "  I  would  fain  show  my  son- 
in-law,  who  may  be  the  father  of  a  line  of  kings,  that  a  general 
may  be  helpless  at  the  head  of  thousands,  but  that  a  man  may 
stand  alone  who  has  the  love  of  a  nation." 

"  May  Clarence  profit  by  the  lesson  !  Where  is  he  all  this 
while  ? " 

"  Abed,"  said  the  stout  Earl,  with  a  slight  accent  of  disdain  ; 
and  then  in  a  softer  voice,  he  added  ;  "Youth  is  ever  luxurious. 
Better  the  slow  man  than  the  false  one." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  329 

Leaving  Warwick  to  discharge  the  duty  enjoined  him,  we 
follow  the  dissimulating  King. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WHAT    BEFALLS    KING    EDWARD    ON    HIS    ESCAPE    FROM     OLNEY. 

As  soon  as  Edward  was  out  of  sight  of  the  spire  of  Olney 
he  slackened  his  speed,  and  beckoned  Hastings  to  his  side. 

"*Dear  Will,"  said  the  King.  "  I  have  thought  over  thy 
counsel,  and  will. find  the  occasion  to  make  experiment  thereof. 
But,  methinks,  thou  wilt  agree  with  me,  that  concessions  come 
best  from  a  king  who  has  an  army  of  his  own.  'Fore  Heaven  ! 
in  the  camp  of  a  Warwick  I  have  less  power  than  a  lieutenant  ! 
Now  mark  me.  I  go  to  head  some  recruits  raised  in  haste 
near  Coventry.  The  scene  of  contest  must  be  in  the  northern 
counties.  Wilt  thou,  for  love  of  me,  ride  night  and  day, 
thorough  brake  thorough  brier,  to  Gloucester  on  the  borders  ? 
Bid  him  march,  if  the  Scot  will  let  him,  back  to  York ;  and  if 
he  cannot  himself  quit  the  borders,  let  him  send  what  men  can 
be  spared,  under  thy  banner.  Failing  this,  raise  through 
Yorkshire  all  the  men-at-arms  thou  canst  collect.  But,  above 
all,  see  Montagu.  Him  and  his  army  secure  at  all  hazards. 
If  he  demur,  tell  him  his  son  shall  marry  his  king's  daughter, 
and  wear  the  coronal  of  a  duke.  Ha  !  ha  !  a  large  bait  for  so 
large  a  fish  !  I  see  this  is  no  casual  outbreak,  but  a  general 
convulsion  of  the  realm  ;  and  the  Earl  of  Warwick  must  not 
be  the  only  man  to  smile  or  to  frown  back  the  angry  elements." 

" In  this,  beau  sire"  answered  Hastings,  "you  speak  as  a 
king  and  a  warrior  should,  and  I  will  do  my  best  to  assert  your 
royal  motto — '  Modus  et  ordo?  If  I  can  but  promise  that  your 
Highness  has  for  a  while  dismissed  the  Woodville  lords,  rely 
upon  it,  that  ere  two  months  I  will  place  under  your  truncheon 
an  army  worthy  of  the  liege  lord  of  hardy  England." 

"  Go,  dear  Hastings,  I  trust  all  to  thee  !  "  answered  the  King. 

The  nobleman  kissed  his  sovereign's  extended  hand,  closed 
his  visor,  and,  motioning  to  his  body  squire  to  follow  him, 
disappeared  down  a  green  lane,  avoiding  such  broader  thor- 
oughfares as  might  bring  him  in  contact  with  the  officers  left  at 
Olney. 

In  a  small  village  near  Coventry,  Sir  Anthony  Woodville  had 
collected  about  two  thousand  men  ;  chiefly  composed  of  the 
tenants  and  vassals  of  a  new  nobility,  who  regarded  the  brilliant 
Anthony  as  their  head.  The  leaders  were  gallant  and  am- 


33°  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

bilious  gentlemen,  as  they  who  arrive  at  fortunes  above  their 
birth  mostly  are,  but  their  vassals  were  little  to  be  trusted. 
For  in  that  day  clanship  was  still  strong,  and  these  followers 
had  been  bred  in  allegiance  to  Lancastrian  lords,  whose  confis- 
cated estates  were  granted  to  the  Yorkist  favorites.  The  shout 
that  welcomed  the  arrival  of  the  King  was  therefore  feeble  and 
lukewarm  ;  and,  disconcerted  by  so  chilling  a  reception,  he 
dismounted,  in  less  elevated  spirits  than  those  in  which  he  had 
left  Olney,  at  the  pavilion  of  his  brother-in-law. 

The  mourning  dress  of  Anthony,  his  countenance  saddened 
by  the  barbarous  execution  of  his  father  and  brother,  did  not 
tend  to  cheer  the  King. 

But  Woodville's  account  of  the  Queen's  grief  and  horror  at 
the  afflictions  of  her  house,  and  of  Jacquetta's  indignation  at 
the  foul  language  which  the  report  of  her  practices  put  into  the 
popular  mouth,  served  to  endear  to  the  King's  mind  the  family 
that  he  considered  unduly  persecuted.  Even  in  the  coldest 
breasts  affection  is  fanned  by  opposition,  and  the  more  the 
Queen's  kindred  were  assailed,  the  more  obstinately  Edward 
clung  to  them.  By  suiting  his  humor,  by  winking  at  his  gal- 
lantries, by  a  submissive  sweetness  of  temper,  which  soothed 
his  own  hasty  moods  and  contrasted  with  the  rough  pride  of 
Warwick  and  the  peevish  fickleness  of  Clarence,  Elizabeth  had 
completely  wound  herself  into  the  King's  heart.  And  the 
charming  graces,  the  elegant  accomplishments  of  Anthony 
Woodville,  were  too  harmonious  with  the  character  of  Edward, 
who  in  all — except  truth  and  honor — was  the  perfect  model  of 
the  gay  gentilhomme  of  the  time,  not  to  have  become  almost  a 
necessary  companionship.  Indolent  natures  may  be  easily 
ruled,  but  they  grow  stubborn  when  their  comforts  and  habits 
are  interfered  with.  And  the  whole  current  of  Edward's 
merry,  easy  life  seemed  to  him  to  lose  flow  and  sparkle,  if  the 
faces  he  loved  best  were  banished  or  even  clouded. 

He  was  yet  conversing  with  Woodville,  and  yet  assuring  him, 
that,  however  he  might  temporize,  he  would  never  abandon  the 
interests  of  his  Queen's  kindred,  when  a  gentleman  entered 
aghast,  to  report  that  the  Lords  St.  John  and  de  Fulke,  on 
hearing  that  Sir  Anthony  Woodville  was  in  command  of  the 
forces,  had,  without  even  dismounting,  left  the  camp,  and  car- 
ried with  them  their  retainers,  amounting  to  more  than  half  of 
the  little  troop  that  rode  from  Olney. 

"Let  them  go,"  said  Edward,  frowning ;  "  a  day  shall  dawn 
upon  their  headless  trunks  ! " 

"  Oh,  my  King,"  said  Anthony,  now  Earl  of  Rivers — who, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  331 

by  far  the  least  selfish  of  his  house,  was  struck  with  remorse  at 
the  penalty  Edward  paid  for  his  love  marriage — "  now  that 
your  Highness  can  relieve  me  of  my  command,  let  me  retire 
from  the  camp.  I  would  fain  go,  a  pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of 
Compostella,  to  pray  for  my  father's  sins  and  my  sovereign's 
weal." 

"  Let  us  first  see  what  forces  arrive  from  London,"  answered 
the  King.  "  Richard  ere  long  will  be  on  the  march  from  the 
frontiers,  and  whatever  Warwick's  resolves,  Montagu,  whose 
heart  I  hold  in  my  hand,  will  bring  his  army  to  my  side.  Let 
us  wait." 

But  the  next  day  brought  no  reinforcements,  nor  the  next  ; 
and  the  King  retired  betimes  to  his  tent,  in  much  irritation  and 
perplexity  ;  when  at  the  dead  of  the  night  he  was  startled 
from  slumber  by  the  tramp  of  horses,  the  sound  of  horns,  the 
challenge  of  the  sentinels — and,  as  he  sprang  from  his  couch, 
and  hurried  on  his  armor  in  alarm,  the  Earl  of  Warwick  abruptly 
entered.  The  Earl's  face  was  stern,  but  calm  and  sad  ;  and 
Edward's  brave  heart  beat  loud  as  he  gazed  on  his  formidable 
subject. 

"King  Edward,"  said  Warwick  slowly  and  mournfully,  "you 
have  deceived  me  !  I  promised  to  the  Commons  the  banish- 
ment of  the  Woodvilles,  and  to  a  Woodville  you  have  flown." 

"  Your  promise  was  given  to  rebels,  with  whom  no  faith  can 
be  held  ;  and  I  passed  from  a  den  of  mutiny  to  the  camp  of  a 
loyal  soldier." 

"We  will  not  now  waste  words,  King,"  answered  Warwick. 
"  Please  you  to  mount,  and  ride  northward.  The  Scotch  have 
gained  great  advantages  on  the  marches.  The  Duke  of  Glou- 
cester is  driven  backwards.  All  the  Lancastrians  in  the  North 
have  risen.  Margaret  of  Anjou  is  on  the  coast  of  Normandy,* 
ready  to  set  sail  at  the  first  decisive  victory  of  her  adherents." 

"  I  am  with  you,"  answered  Edward  ;  "  and  I  rejoice  to 
think  that  at  last  I  may  meet  a  foe.  Hitherto  it  seems  as  if  I 
had  been  chased  by  shadows.  Now  may  I  hope  to  grasp  the 
form  and  substance  of  danger  and  of  battle." 

"A  steed  prepared  for  your  Grace  awaits  you." 

"  Whither  ride  we  first  ?  " 

"To  my  castle  of  Warwick,  hard  by.  At  noon  to-morrow 
all  will  be  ready  for  our  northward  march." 

Edward,  by  this  time  having  armed  himself,  strode  from  the 
tent  into  the  open  air.  The  scene  was  striking  ;  the  moon  was 
extremely  bright  and  the  sky  serene,  but  around  the  tent  stood 

*  At  this  time,  Margaret  was  at  Horfleur.— Will  Wyre, 


33-  THE    LAST    OF    THE    liARONS. 

a  troop  of  torch-bearers,  and  the  red  glare  shone  luridly  upon 
the  steel  of  the  serried  horsemen  and  the  banners  of  the  Earl, 
in  which  the  grim  white  bear  was  wrought  upon  an  ebon  ground, 
quartered  with  the  dun  bull,  and  crested  in  gold  with  the  eagle 
of  the  Monthermers.  Far  as  the  King's  eye  could  reach,  he  saw 
but  the  spears  of  Warwick  ;  while  a  confused  hum  in  his  own 
encampment  told  that  the  troops  Anthony  Woodville  had  col- 
lected were  not  yet  marshalled  into  order — Edward  drew 
back. 

'  And  the  Lord  Anthony  of  Scales  and  Rivers,"  said  he  hesi- 
tatingly. 

"  Choose,  King,  between  the  Lord  Anthony  of  Scales  and 
Rivers,  and  Richard  Nevile  ! "  answered  Warwick,  in  a  stern 
whisper. 

Edward  paused,  and  at  that  moment  Anthony  himself 
emerged  from  his  tent  (which  adjoined  the  King's)  in  company 
with  the  Archbishop  of  York,  who  had  rode  thither  in  War- 
wick's train." 

"  My  liege,"  said  that  gallant  knight,  putting  his  knee  to  the 
ground,  "  I  have  heard  from  the  Archbishop  the  new  perils 
that  await  your  Highness,  and  I  grieve  sorely  that,  in  this 
strait,  your  counsellors  deem  it  meet  to  forbid  me  the  glory  of 
fighting  or  falling  by  your  side  !  I  know  too  well  the  unhappy 
odium  attached  to  my  house  and  name  in  the  northern  parts, 
to  dispute  the  policy  which  ordains  my  absence  from  your 
armies.  Till  these  feuds  are  over,  I  crave  your  royal  leave  to 
quit  England,  and  perform  my  pilgrimage  to  the  sainted  shrine 
of  Compostella." 

A  burning  flush  passed  over  the  King's  face,  as  he  raised  his 
brother-in-law,  and  clasped  him  to  his  bosom. 

"  Go  or  stay,  as  you  will,  Anthony  !  "  said  he,  "  but  let  these 
proud  men  know  that  neither  time  nor  absence  can  tear  you 
from  your  King's  heart.  But  envy  must  have  its  hour  !  Lord 
Warwick,  I  attend  you,  but,  it  seems,  rather  as  your  prisoner 
than  your  liege." 

Warwick  made  no  answer :  the  King  mounted,  and  waved 
his  hand  to  Anthony.  The  torches  tossed  to  and  fro,  the  horns 
sounded,  and  in  a  silence,  moody  and  resentful  on  either  part, 
Edward  and  his  terrible  subject  rode  on  to  the  towers  of  War- 
wick. 

The  next  day,  the  King  beheld,  with  astonishment,  the 
immense  force  that,  in  a  time  so  brief,  the  Earl  had  collected 
round  his  standard. 

From  his  casement,  which  commanded  that  lovely  slope  on 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  333 

which  so  many  a  tourist  now  gazes  with  an  eye  that  seeks  to 
call  back  the  stormy  and  chivalric  past,  Edward  beheld  the 
Earl  on  his  renowned  black  charger,  reviewing  the  thousands 
that,  file  on  file,  and  rank  on  rank,  lifted  pike  and  lance  in  the 
cloudless  sun. 

"  After  all,"  muttered  the  King,  "  I  can  never  make  a  new 
noble  a  great  baron  !  And  if  in  peace  a  great  baron  over- 
shadows the  throne,  in  time  of  war  a  great  baron  is  a  throne's 
bulwark  !  Gramercy,  I  had  been  mad  to  cast  away  such  an 
army — an  army  fit  for  a  king  to  lead  !  They  serve  Warwick 
now,  but  Warwick  is  less  skilful  in  the  martial  art  than  I — and 
soldiers,  like  hounds,  love  best  the  most  dexterous  huntsman !  " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

HOW  KING  EDWARD    ARRIVES    AT    THE    CASTLE    OF  MIDDLEHAM. 

ON  the  ramparts  of  feudal  Middleham,  in  the  same  place 
where  Anne  had  confessed  to  Isabel  the  romance  of  her  child- 
ish love,  again  the  sisters  stood,  awaiting  the  coming  of  their 
father  and  the  King.  They  had  only,  with  their  mother,  reached 
Middleham  two  days  before,  and  the  preceding  night  an  advanced 
guard  had  arrived  at  the  castle  to  announce  the  approach  of 
the  Earl  with  his  royal  comrade  and  visitor.  From  the  heights, 
already,  they  beheld  the  long  array  winding  in  glorious  order 
towards  the  mighty  pile. 

"  Look  !  "  exclaimed  Isabel,  "  look  !  already  methinks  I  see 
the  white  steed  of  Clarence.  Yes  !  it  is  he  !  it  is  my  George — 
my  husband  !  The  banner  borne  before  shows  his  device." 

"Ah  !  happy  Isabel !  "  said  Anne,  sighing,  "  what  rapture  to 
await  the  coming  of  him  one  loves  !  " 

"  My  sweet  Anne,"  returned  Isabel,  passing  her  arm  tenderly 
round  her  sister's  slender  waist,  "  when  thou  hast  conquered 
the  vain  folly  of  thy  childhood,  thou  wilt  find  a  Clarence  of 
thine  own.  And  yet,"  added  the  young  Duchess,  smiling,  "  it 
must  be  the  opposite  of  a  Clnrence,  to  be  to  thy  heart  what  a 
Clarence  is  to  mine.  I  love  George's  gay  humor — thou  lovest 
a  melancholy  brow.  I  love  that  charming  weakness  which 
supples  to  my  woman  will — thou  lovest  a  proud  nature  that 
may  command  thine  own.  I  do  not  respect  George  less,  because 
I  know  my  mind  stronger  than  his  own;  but  thou  (like  my  gentle 
mother)  wouldst  have  thy  mate  lord,  and  chief  in  all  things, 
and  live  from  his  life  as  the  shadow  from  the  sun.  But  where 
left  you  our  mother?'' 


$34  111E    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"  In  the  oratory,  at  prayer  !" 

"  She  has  been  sad  of  late." 

"  The  dark  times  darken  her  ;  and  she  ever  fears  the  King's 
falseness  or  caprice  will  stir  the  Earl  up  to  some  rash  emprise. 
My  father's  letter,  brought  last  night  to  her,  contains  something 
that  made  her  couch  sleepless." 

"  Ha  !  "  exclaimed  the  Duchess  eagerly, "  my  mother  confides 
in  thee  more  than  me.  Saw  you  the  letter  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Edward  will  make  himself  unfit  to  reign,"  said  Isabel 
abruptly.  "The  barons  will  call  on  him  to  resign  ;  and  then — 
and  then,  Anne — sister  Anne, — Warwick's  daughters  cannot  be 
born  to  be  simple  subjects  !  " 

"  Isabel,  God  temper  your  ambition  !  Oh  !  curb  it — crush  it 
down  !  Abuse  not  your  influence  with  Clarence.  Let  not  the 
brother  aspire  to  the  brother's  crown." 

"  Sister,  a  king's  diadem  covers  all  the  sins  schemed  in  the 
head  that  wins  it ! " 

As  the  Duchess  spoke,  her  eyes  flashed  and  her  form  dilated. 
Her  beauty  seemed  almost  terrible. 

The  gentle  Anne  gazed  and  shuddered  ;  but  ere  she  found 
words  to  rebuke,  the  lovely  shape  of  the  Countess-mother  was 
seen  moving  slowly  towards  them.  She  was  dressed  in  her 
robes  of  state  to  receive  her  kingly  guest ;  the  vest  fitting  high 
to  the  throat,  where  it  joined  the  ermine  tippet,  and  thickly 
sown  with  jewels  ;  the  sleeves  tight,  with  the  second  or  over 
sleeves,  that,  loose  and  large,  hung  pendent  and  sweeping  even 
to  the  ground  ;  and  the  gown,  velvet  of  cramousin,  trimmed 
with  ermine,  made  a  costume  not  less  graceful  than  magnificent, 
and  which,  where  compressed,  set  off  the  exquisite  symmetry 
of  a  form  still  youthful,  and  where  flowing,  added  majesty  to  a 
beauty  naturally  rather  soft  and  feminine  than  proud  and 
stately.  As  she  approached  her  children,  she  looked  rather  like 
their  sister  than  their  mother,  as  if  Time,  at  least,  shrunk  from 
visiting  harshly  one  for  whom  such  sorrows  were  reserved  ! 

The  face  of  the  Countess  was  so  sad  in  its  aspect  of  calm 
and  sweet  resignation,  that  even  the  proud  Isabel  was  touched  ; 
and  kissing  her  mother's  hand,  she  asked,  "  If  any  ill  tidings 
preceded  her  father's  coming  ?  " 

"  Alas,  my  Isabel,  the  times  themselves  are  bad  tidings  ! 
Your  youth  scarcely  remembers  the  days  when  brother  fought 
against  brother,  and  the  son's  sword  rose  against  the  father's 
breast.  But  I,  recalling  them,  tremble  to  hear  the  faintest 
murmur  that  threatens  a  civil  war."  She  paused,  and  forcing 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  335 

a  smile  to  her  lips,  added  :  "  Our  woman  fears  must  not,  how- 
ever, sadden  our  lords  with  an  unwelcome  countenance  ;-  for 
men,  returning  to  their  hearths,  have  a  right  to  a  wife's  smile  ; 
and  so,  Isabel,  thou  and  I,  wives  both,  must  forget  the  morrow 
in  to-day.  Hark  !  the  trumpets  sound  near  and  nearer — let  us 
to  the  hall." 

Before,  however,  they  had  reached  the  castle,  a  shrill  blast 
rang  at  the  outer  gate.  The  portcullis  was  raised  ;  the  young 
Duke  of  Clarence,  with  a  bridegroom's  impatience,  spurred 
alone  through  the  gloomy  arch,  and  Isabel,  catching  sight  of 
his  countenance,  lifted  towards  the  ramparts,  uttered  a  cry  anu 
waved  her  hand.  Clarence  heard  and  saw,  leapt  from  his 
steed,  and  had  clasped  Isabel  to  his  breast,  almost  before  Anne 
or  the  Countess  had  recognized  the  new-comer. 

Isabel,  however,  always  stately,  recovered  in  an  instant  from 
the  joy  she  felt  at  her  lord's  return,  and  gently  escaping  his 
embrace,  she  glanced  with  a  blush  towards  the  battlements 
crowded  with  retainers  ;  Clarence  caught  and  interpreted  the 
look. 

"  Well,  belle  mtre"  he  said,  turning  to  the  Countess — "and  if 
yon  faithful  followers  do  witness  with  what  glee  a  fair  bride 
inspires  a  returning  bride-groom,  is  there  cause  for  shame  in 
this  cheek  of  damascene  ?  " 

"  Is  the  King  still  with  my  father  ? "  asked  Isabel  hastily, 
and  interrupting  the  Countess's  reply. 

"  Surely,  yes  ;  and  hard  at  hand.  And  pardon  me  that  I 
forget,  dear  lady,  to  say  that  my  royal  brother  has  announced 
his  intention  of  addressing  the  principal  officers  of  the  army  in 
Middleham  Hall.  This  news  gave  me  fair  excuse  for  hasten- 
ing to  you  and  Isabel." 

"  All  is  prepared  for  his  Highness,"  said  the  Countess, 
"  save  our  own  homage.  We  must  quicken  our  steps — come, 
Anne." 

The  Countess  took  the  arm  of  the  younger  sister,  while  the 
Duchess  made  a  sign  to  Clarence — he  lingered  behind,  and 
Isabel  drawing  him  aside,  asked  : 

"  Is  my  father  reconciled  to  Edward  !  " 

"  No — nor  Edward  to  him." 

"Good  !  The  King  has  no  soldiers  of  his  own  amidst  yon 
armed  train  ?  " 

"  Save  a  few  of  Anthony  Woodville's  recruits — none.  Raoul 
de  Fulke  and  St.  John  have  retired  to  their  towers  in  sullen 
dudgeon.  But  have  you  no  softer  questions  for  my  return, 
bclla  mia  ?  " 


336  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"  Pardon  me  —  many  —  my  king." 


"What  other  name  should  the  successor  of  Edward  IV. 
bear  ?  " 

"  Isabel,"  said  Clarence,  in  great  emotion,  "  what  is  it  yon 
would  tempt  me  to  ?  Edward  IV.  spares  the  life  of  Henry 
VI.,  and  shall  Edward  IV.  's  brother  conspire  against  his  own  ?" 

"  Saints  forefend  !"  exclaimed  Isabel  —  "can  you  so  wrong 
my  honest  meaning  ?  O  George  !  can  you  conceive  that  your 
wife  —  Warwick's  daughter  —  harbors  the  thought  of  murder? 
No  !  surely  the  career  before  you  seems  plain  and  spotless  ! 
Can  Edward  reign  ?  Deserted  by  the  barons,  and  wearing 
away  even  my  father's  long  credulous  love  ;  odious  !  except  in 
luxurious  and  unwarlike  London,  to  all  the  commons  —  how 
reign  ?  What  other  choice  left  ?  None  —  save  Henry  of  Lan- 
caster or  George  of  York." 

"  Were  it  so,"  said  the  weak  Duke,  and  yet  he  added  falter- 
ingly  —  "believe  me,  Warwick  meditates  no  such  changes  in  my 
favor." 

"  Time  is  a  rapid  ripener,"  answered  Isabel  —  "  but  hark, 
they  are  lowering  the  drawbridge  for  our  guests." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE     ANCIENTS     RIGHTLY     GAVE     TO     THE     GODDESS     OF     ELO- 
QUENCE— A   CROWN. 

THE  Lady  of  Warwick  stood  at  the  threshold  of  the  porch, 
which,  in  the  inner  side  of  the  broad  quadrangle,  admitted  to 
the  apartments  used  by  the  family  ;  and,  heading  the  mighty 
train  that,  line  after  line,  emerged  through  the  grim  jaws  of  the 
arch,  came  the  Earl  on  his  black  destrier,  and  the  young  King. 

Even  where  she  stood,  the  anxious  Chatelaine  beheld  the 
moody  and  gloomy  air  with  which  Edward  glanced  around  the 
strong  walls  of  the  fortress,  and  up  to  the  battlements  that 
bristled  with  the  pikes  and  sallets  of  armed  men,  who  looked 
on  the  pomp  below,  in  the  silence  of  military  discipline. 

"  Oh,  Anne  !  "  she  whispered,  to  her  youngest  daughter,  who 
stood  beside  her,  "  what  are  women  worth  in  the  strife  of  men  ? 
Would  that  our  smiles  could  heal  the  wounds  which  a  taunt 
can  make  in  a  proud  man's  heart !  " 

Anne,  affected  and  interested  by  her  mother's  words,  and 
with  a  secret  curiosity  to  gaze  upon  the  man  who  ruled  on  the 
throne  of  the  prince  she  loved,  came  nearer  and  more  in  front, 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  337 

and  suddenly,  as  he  turned  his  head,  the  King's,  regard  rested 
upon  her  intent  eyes  and  blooming  face. 

"  Who  is  that  fair  donzell,  cousin  of  Warwick  ?  "  he  asked. 

"My  daughter,  sire." 

"Ah  !  your  youngest ! — I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was  a 
child." 

Edward  reined  in  his  charger,  and  the  Earl  threw  himself 
from  his  selle,  and  held  the  King's  stirrup  to  dismount.  But 
he  did  so  with  a  haughty  and  unsmiling  visage.  "  I  would  be 
the  first,  sire,"  said  he,  with  a  slight  emphasis,  and  as  if  excus- 
ing to  himself  his  condescension,  "  to  welcome  to  Middleham 
the  son  of  Duke  Richard." 

"  And  your  suzerain,  my  lord  Earl,"  added  Edward,  with  no 
less  proud  a  meaning,  and  leaning  his  hand  tightly  on  War- 
wick's shoulder,  he  dismounted  slowly.  "Rise,  lady,"  he  said, 
raising  the  Countess,  who  knelt  at  the  porch  ;  "  and  you  too, 
fair  demoiselle.  Pardieu,  we  envy  the  knee  that  hath  knelt  to 
you."  So  saying,  with  royal  graciousness,  he  took  the  Coun- 
tess's hand,  and  they  entered  the  hall  as  the  musicians,  in  the 
gallery  raised  above,  rolled  forth  their  stormy  welcome. 

The  Archbishop,  who  had  followed  close  to  Warwick  and 
the  King,  whispered  now  to  his  brother  : 

"  Why  would  Edward  address  the  captains  ?  " 

"  I  know  not." 

"He  hath  made  himself  familiar  with  many  in  the  march." 

"  Familiarity  with  a  steel  casque  better  becomes  a  king  than 
waisall  with  a  greasy  flat-cap." 

"  You  do  not  fear  lest  he  seduce  from  the  White  Bear  its 
retainers  ? " 

"  As  well  fear  that  he  can  call  the  stars  from  their  courses 
around  the  sun." 

While  these  words  were  interchanged,  the  Countess  conducted 
the  King  to  a  throne-chair,  raised  upon  the  dais,  by  the  side  of 
which  were  placed  two  seats  of  state,  and,  from  the  dais  at  the 
same  time  advanced  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Clarence.  The 
King  prevented  their  kneeling,  and  kissed  Isabel  slightly  and 
gravely  on  the  forehead.  "  Thus,  noble  lady,  I  greet  the 
entrance  of  the  Duchess  of  Clarence  into  the  royalty  of  Eng- 
land." 

Without  pausing  for  reply,  he  passed  on  and  seated  himself 
on  the  throne,  while  Isabel  and  her  husband  took  possession 
of  the  state  chairs  on  either  hand.  At  a  gesture  of  the  King's, 
the  Countess  and  Anne  placed  themselves  on  seats  less  raised, 
but  still  upon  the  dais.  But  now  as  Edward  sate,  the  hall  grew 


33  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

gradually  full  of  lords  and  knights  who  commanded  in  War- 
wick's train,  while  the  Earl  and  the  Archbishop  stood  mute  in 
the  centre,  the  one  armed  eap-fr-pie,  leaning  on  his  sword,  the 
other  with  his  arms  folded  in  his  long  robes. 

The  King's  eye,  clear,  steady,  and  majestic,  roved  round  that 
martial  audience,  worthy  to  be  a  monarch's  war-council,  and 
not  one  of  whom  marched  under  a  monarch's  banner.  Their 
silence,  their  discipline,  the  splendor  of  their  arms,  the  greater 
splendor  of  their  noble  names,  contrasted  painfully  with  the 
little  mutinous  camp  of  Olney,  and  the  surly,  untried  recruits 
of  Anthony  Woodville.  But  Edward,  whose  step,  whose  form, 
whose  aspect,  proclaimed  the  man  conscious  of  his  rights  to  be 
lord  of  all,  betrayed  not  to  those  around  him  the  kingly  pride, 
the  lofty  grief  that  swelled  within  his  heart.  Still  seated,  he 
raised  his  left  hand  to  command  silence  ;  with  the  right  he 
replaced  his  plumed  cap  upon  his  brow. 

"  Lords  and  gentlemen,"  he  said  (arrogating  to  himself  at 
once,  as  a  thing  of  course,  that  gorgeous  following),  "  we  have 
craved  leave  of  our  host  to  address  to  you  some  words — words 
which  it  pleases  a  king  to  utter,  and  which  may  not  be  harsh 
to  the  ears  of  a  loyal  subject.  Nor  will  we,  at  this  great  cur- 
rent of  unsteady  fortune,  make  excuse,  noble  ladies,  to  you,  that 
we  speak  of  war  to  knighthood,  which  is  ever  the  sworn  defen- 
der of  the  daughter  and  the  wife — the  daughters  and  the  wife 
of  our  cousin,  Warwick,  have  too  much  of  hero  blood  in  their 
blue  veins  to  grow  pale  at  the  sight  of  heroes.  Comrades  in 
arms  !  thus  far  towards  our  foe  upon  the  frontiers  we  have 
marched,  without  a  sword  drawn  or  an  arrow  launched  from 
an  archer's  bow.  We  believe  that  a  blessing  settles  on  the 
head  of  a  true  king,  and  that  the  trumpet  of  a  good  angel 
goes  before  his  path,  announcing  the  victory  which  awaits  him. 
Here,  in  the  hall  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  our  captain-general, 
we  thank  you  for  your  cheerful  countenance,  and  your  loyal 
service  ;  and  here,  as  befits  a  king,  we  promise  to  you  those 
honors  a  king  alone  worthily  can  bestow."  He  paused,  and 
his  keen  eye  glanced  from  chief  to  chief  as  he  resumed  :  "  We 
are  informed  that  certain  misguided  and  traitor  lords  have 
joined  the  Rose  of  Lancaster.  Whoever  so  doth  is  attainted, 
life  and  line,  evermore  !  His  lands  and  dignities  are  forfeit  to 
enrich  and  to  ennoble  the  men  who  strike  for  me.  Heaven 
grant  I  may  have  foes  eno'  to  reward  all  my  friends  !  To  every 
baron  who  owns  Edward  IV.  king  (ay,  and  not  king  in  name — 
king  in  banquet  and  in  bower — but  leader  and  captain  in  the 
war),  I  trust  to  give  a  new  barony  ;  to  every  knight  a  new  knight's 


THE   LAST    OP    THE    BARONS.  339 

fee  ;  to  every  yeoman  a  hyde  of  land  ;  to  every  soldier  a  year's 
pay.  What  more  I  can  do,  let  it  be  free  for  any  one  to  sug- 
gest— for  my  domains  of  York  are  broad,  and  my  heart  is  lar- 
ger still  !  " 

A  murmur  of  applause  and  reverence  went  round.  Vowed 
as  those  warriors  were,  to  the  Earl,  they  felt  that  A  MONARCH 
was  amongst  them. 

"What  say  you,  then?  We  are  ripe  for  glory.  Three  days 
will  we  halt  at  Middleham,  guest  to  our  noble  subject." 

"  Three  days,  sire  !  "  repeated  Warwick,  in  a  voice  of 
surprise. 

"Yes  ;  and  this,  fair  cousin,  and  ye,  lords  and  gentlemen,  is 
my  reason  for  the  delay.  I  have  dispatched  Sir  William,  Lord 
de  Hastings,  to  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  with  command  to  join 
us  here  (the  Archbishop  started,  but  instantly  resumed  his 
earnest  placid  aspect) — to  the  Lord  Montagu,  Earl  of  North- 
umberland, to  muster  all  the  vassels  of  our  shire  of  York.  As 
three  streams  that  dash  into  the  ocean,  shall  our  triple  army 
meet  and  rush  to  the  war.  Not  even,  gentlemen,  not  even  to 
the  great  Earl  of  Warwick  will  Edward  IV.  be  so  beholden  for 
roiaulme  and  renown,  as  to  march  but  a  companion  to  the  con- 
quest. If  ye  were  raised  in  Warwick's  name,  not  mine — why, 
be  it  so  !  I  envy  him  such  friends  ;  but  I  will  have  an  army 
of  my  own,  to  show  mine  English  soldiery  how  a  Plantagenet 
battles  for  his  crown.  Gentlemen,  ye  are  dismissed  to  your 
repose.  In  three  days  we  march  !  And  if  any  of  you  know  in 
these  fair  realms  the  man,  be  he  of  York  or  Lancaster,  more 
fit  to  command  brave  subjects  than  he  who  now  addresses  you, 
I  say  to  that  man — turn  rein,  and  leave  us  !  Let  tyrants  and 
cowards  enforce  reluctant  service,  my  crown  was  won  by  the 
hearts  of  my  people  !  Girded  by  those  hearts,  let  me  reign — 
or,  mourned  by  them,  let  me  fall !  So  God  and  St.  George 
favor  me  as  I  speak  the  truth  ! " 

And  as  the  King  ceased,  he  uncovered  his  head,  and  kissed 
the  cross  of  his  sword.  A  thrill  went  through  the  audience. 
Many  were  there,  disaffected  to  his  person,  and  whom  War- 
wick's influence  alone  could  have  roused  to  arms  ;  but,  at  the 
close  of  an  address,  spirited  and  royal  in  itself,  and  borrowing 
thousand-fold  effect  by  the  voice  and  mien  of  the  speaker,  no 
feeling  but  that  of  enthusiastic  loyalty,  of  almost  tearful  admi- 
ration, was  left  in  those  steel-clad  breasts. 

As  the  King  lifted  on  high  the  cross  of  his  sword,  every 
blade  leapt  from  its  scabbard,  and  glittered  in  the  air ;  and  the 
dusty  banners  in  the  hall  waved,  as  to  a  mighty  blast,  when, 


340  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

amidst  the  rattle  of  armor,  burst  forth  the  universal  cry  : 
"  Long  live  Edward  IV.!  Long  live  the  King." 

The  sweet  Countess,  even  amidst  the  excitement,  kept  her 
eyes  anxiously  fixed  on  Warwick,  whose  countenance,  however, 
shaded  by  the  black  plumes  of  his  casque,  though  the  visor  was 
raised,  revealed  nothing  of  his  mind.  Her  daughters  were 
more  powerfully  affected  ;  for  Isabel's  intellect  was  not  so 
blinded  by  her  ambition,  but  that  the  kingliness  of  Edward 
forced  itself  upon  her  with  a  might  and  solemn  weight,  which 
crushed,  for  the  moment,  her  aspiring  hopes — Was////*  the  man 
unfit  to  reign  !  This  the  man  voluntarily  to  resign  a  crown  ? 
This  the  man  whom  George  of  Clarence,  without  fratricide, 
could  succeed  ?  No  ! — there  spoke  the  soul  of  the  First  and 
the  Third  Edward  !  There  shook  the  mane,  and  there 
glowed  the  eye,  of  the  indomitable  lion  of  the  august  Plantage- 
nets !  And  the  same  conviction,  rousing  softer  and  holier 
sorrow,  sate  on  the  heart  of  Anne ;  she  saw,  as  for  the  first 
time,  clearly  before  her  the  awful  foe  with  whom  her  ill- 
omened  and  beloved  Prince  had  to  struggle  for  his  throne.  In 
contrast  beside  that  form,  in  the  prime  of  manly  youth — a  giant 
in  its  strength,  a  god  in  its  beauty — rose  the  delicate  shape  of 
the  melancholy  boy  who,  afar  in  exile,  coupled  in  his  dreams 
the  sceptre  and  the  bride  !  By  one  of  those  mysteries  which 
magnetism  seeks  to  explain,  in  the  strong  intensity  of  her 
emotions,  in  the  tremor  of  her  shaken  nerves,  fear  seemed  to 
grow  prophetic.  A  stream  as  of  blood  rose  up  from  the  dizzy 
floors.  The  image  of  her  young  Prince,  bound  and  friendless, 
stood  before  the  throne  of  that  warrior-king.  In  the  waving 
glitter  of  the  countless  swords  raised  on  high,  she  saw  the  mur- 
derous blade  against  the  boy-heir  of  Lancaster  descend — de- 
scend !  Her  passion,  her  terror,  at  the  spectre  which  fancy 
thus  evoked,  seized  and  overcame  her  ;  and  ere  the  last  hurrah 
sent  its  hollow  echo  to  the  raftered  roof,  she  sank  from  her 
chair  to  the  ground,  huelessand  insensible  as  the  dead. 

The  King  had  not  without  design  permitted  the  unwonted 
presence  of  the  women  in  this  warlike  audience.  Partly  be- 
cause he  was  not  unaware  of  the  ambitious  spirit  of  Isabel, 
partly  because  he  counted  on  the  affection  shown  to  his  boy- 
hood by  the  Countess,  who  was  said  to  have  singular  influence 
over  her  lord,  but  principally  because  in  such  a  presence  he 
trusted  to  avoid  all  discussion  and  all  questioning,  and  to  leave 
the  effect  of  his  eloquence,  in  which  he  excelled  all  his  con- 
temporaries, Gloucester  alone  excepted,  single  and  unimpaired; 
and,  therefore,  as  he  rose,  and  returned  with  a  majestic  bend 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  34! 

the  acclamation  of  the  warriors,  his  eyes  now  turned  towards 
the  chairs  where  the  ladies  sat,  and  he  was  the  first  to  perceive 
the  swoon  of  the  fair  Anne. 

With  the  tender  grace  that  always  characterized  his  service 
to  women,  he  descended  promptly  from  his  throne,  and  raised 
the  lifeless  form  in  his  stalwart  arms  ;  and  Anne,  as  he  bent 
over  her,  looked  so  strangely  lovely,  in  her  marble  stillness, 
that  even  in  that  hour  a  sudden  thrill  shot  through  a  heart 
always  susceptible  to  beauty,  as  the  harp  string  to  the  breeze. 

"  It  is  but  the  heat,  lady,"  said  he,  to  the  alarmed  Countess, 
"  and  let  me  hope  that  interest  which  my  fair  kinswoman  may 
take  in  the  fortunes  of  Warwick  and  of  York,  hitherto  linked 
together — " 

"  May  they  ever  be  so  !  "  said  Warwick,  who,  on  seeing  his 
daughter's  state,  had  advanced  hastily  to  the  dais ;  and, 
moved  by  the  King's  words,  his  late  speech,  the  evils  that  sur- 
rounded his  throne,  the  gentleness  shown  to  the  beloved  Anne, 
forgetting  resentment  and  ceremony  alike,  he  held  out  his 
mailed  hand.  The  King,  as  he  resigned  Anne  to  her  mother's 
arms,  grasped  with  soldierly  frankness  and  with  the  ready  wit 
of  the  cold  intellect  which  reigned  beneath  the  warm  manner, 
the  hand  thus  extended,  and  holding  still  that  iron  gauntlet  in 
his  own  ungloved  and  jewelled  fingers,  he  advanced  to  the  verge 
of  the  dais,  to  which,  in  the  confusion  occasioned  by  Anne's 
swoon,  the  principal  officers  had  crowded,  and  cried  aloud  : 

"  Behold  !  Warwick  and  Edward  thus  hand  in  hand,  as 
they  stood  when  the  clarions  sounded  the  charge  at  Teuton  '. 
and  that  link  what  swords,  forged  on  a  mortal's  anvil,  can  rend 
or  sever." 

In  an  instant  every  knee  there  knelt ;  and  Edward  exultingly 
beheld,  that  what  before  had  been  allegiance  to  the  Earl  was 
now  only  homage  to  the  King. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WEDDED  CONFIDENCE  AND  LOVE — THE  EARL  AND  THE  PREL- 
ATE— THE  PRELATE  AND  THE  KING — SCHEMES — WILES — 
AND  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  DARK  THOUGHT  DESTINED  TO 
ECLIPSE  A  SUN. 

WHILE,  preparatory  to  the  banquet,  Edward,  as  was  then 
the  daily  classic  custom,  relaxed  his  fatigues,  mental  or  bodily, 
in  the  hospitable  bath,  the  Archbishop  sought  the  closet  of 
the  Earl. 


342  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"Brother,"  said  he,  throwing  himself  with  some  petulance 
into  the  only  chair  the  room,  otherwise  splendid,  contained, 
"when  you  left  me,  to  seek  Edward  in  the  camp  of  Anthony 
Woodville,  what  was  the  understanding  between  us?" 

"I  know  of  none,"  answered  the  Earl,  who,  having  doffed 
his  armor,  and  dismissed  his  squires,  leaned  thoughtfully 
against  the  wall,  dressed  for  the  banquet,  with  the  exception 
of  the  short  surcoat,  which  lay  glittering  on  the  tabouret. 

"  You  know  of  none  ?  Reflect !  Have  you  brought  hither 
Edward  as  a  guest  or  as  a  prisoner?" 

The  Earl  knit  his  brows — "  A  prisoner,  Archbishop  !  " 

The  prelate  regarded  him  with  a  cold  smile. 

"  Warwick,  you  who  would  deceive  no  other  man,  now  seek 
to  deceive  yourself."  The  Earl  drew  back,  and  his  hardy 
countenance  grew  a  shade  paler.  The  prelate  resumed  :  "You 
have  carried  Edward  from  his  camp,  and  severed  him  from 
his  troops  ;  you  have  placed  him  in  the  midst  of  your  own 
followers  ;  you  have  led  him,  chafing  and  resentful  all  the 
way,  to  this  impregnable  keep  ;  and  you  now  pause,  amazed 
by  the  grandeur  of  your  captive,  a  man  who  leads  to  his 
home  a  tiger — a  spider  who  has  entangled  a  hornet  in  its 
web  !  " 

"  Nay,  reverend  brother,"  said  the  Earl  calmly,  "ye  church- 
men never  know  what  passes  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  feel 
and  do  not  scheme.  When  I  learned  that  the  King  had  fled 
to  the  Woodvilles  ;  that  he  was  bent  upon  violating  the  pledge 
given  in  his  name  to  the  insurgent  Commons ;  I  vowed  that  he 
should  redeem  my  honor  and  his  own,  or  that  forever  I  would 
quit  his  service.  And  here,  within  these  walls  which  sheltered 
his  childhood  I  trusted,  and  trust  still,  to  make  one  last  appeal 
to  his  better  reason." 

"  For  all  that,  men  now,  and  history  hereafter,  will  consider 
Edward  as  your  captive." 

"  To  living  men,  my  words  and  deeds  can  clear  themselves  ; 
and  as  for  history,  let  clerks  and  scholars  fool  themselves  in 
the  lies  of  parchment.  He  who  has  acted  history,  despises  the 
gownsmen  who  sit  in  cloistered  ease,  and  write  about  what 
they  know  not."  The  Earl  paused,  and  then  continued  :  "  I 
confess,  however,  that  I  have  had  a  scheme.  I  have  wished 
to  convince  the  King  how  little  his  mushroom  lords  can  bestead 
him  in  the  storm,  and  that  he  holds  his  crown  only  from  his 
barons  and  his  people." 

"That  is,  from  the  Lord  Warwick  !  " 

"  Perhaps  I  am  the  personation  of  both  seignorie  and  people  ; 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  343 

but  I  design  this  solely  for  his  welfare.  Ah,  the  gallant  prince — 
how  well  he  bore  himself  to-day  ! " 

"Ay,  when  stealing  all  hearts  from  thee  to  him." 

"And,  Vive Dieu,  I  never  loved  him  so  well  as  when  he  did  ! 
Methinks  it  was  for  a  day  like  this  that  I  reared  his  youth  and 
achieved  his  crown.  Oh,  priest,  priest,  thou  mistakest  me.  I 
am  rash,  hot,  haughty,  hasty  ;  and  I  love  not  to  bow  my  knees 
to  a  man  because  they  call  him  king,  if  his  life  be  vicious  and 
his  word  be  false.  But,  could  Edward  be  ever  as  to-day,  then 
indeed  should  I  hail  a  sovereign  whom  a  baron  may  reverence 
and  a  soldier  serve  !  " 

Before  the  Archbishop  could  reply,  the  door  gently  opened, 
and  the  Countess  appeared.  Warwick  seemed  glad  of  the 
interruption  ;  he  turned  quickly  :  "And  how  fares  my  child?" 

"  Recovered  from  her  strange  swoon,  and  ready  to  smile  at 
thy  return.  Oh,  Warwick,  thou  art  reconciled  to  the  King  ! " 

"That  glads  thee,  sister?  "  said  the  Archbishop. 

"Surely.     Is  it  not  for  my  lord's  honor?" 

"  May  he  find  it  so  !  "  said  the  prelate,  and  he  left  the  room. 

"  My  priest-brother  is  chafed,"  said  the  Earl,  smiling. 
"Pity  he  was  not  born  a  trader,  he  would  have  made  a  shrewd, 
hard  bargain.  Verily  our  priests  burn  the  Jews  out  of  envy  ! 
Ah,  mamie,  how  fair  thou  art  to-day.  Methinks  even  Isabel's 
cheek  less  blooming."  And  the  warrior  drew  the  lady  towards 
him  and  smoothed  her  hair,  and  tenderly  kissed  her  brow. 
"  My  letter  vexed  thee,  I  know,  for  thou  lovest  Edward,  and 
blamest  me  not  for  n>y  love  to  him.  It  is  true  that  he  hath 
paltered  with  me,  and  that  I  had  stern  resolves,  not  against  his 
crown,  but  to  leave  him  to  his  fate,  and  in  these  halls  to  resign 
my  charge.  But  while  he  spoke,  and  while  he  looked,  me- 
thought  I  saw  his  mother's  face,  and  heard  his  dear  father's 
tones,  and  the  past  rushed  over  me,  and  all  wrath  was  gone. 
Sonless  myself,  why  would  he  not  be  my  son?"  The  Earl's 
voice  trembled,  and  the  tears  stood  in  his  dark  eyes. 

"Speak  thus,  dear  lord,  to  Isabel,  for  I  fear  her  over-vaulting 
spirit — " 

"  Ah — had  Isabel  been  his  wife !  "  he  paused  and  moved 
away.  Then,  as  if  impatient  to  escape  the  thoughts  that 
tended  to  an  ungracious  recollection,  he  added  :  "  And  now, 
sweetheart,  these  slight  fingers  have  oft-times  buckled  on  my 
mail,  let  them  place  on  my  breast  this  badge  of  St.  George's 
chivalry  ;  and,  if  angry  thoughts  return,  it  shall  remind  me 
that  the  day  on  which  I  wore  it  first,  Richard  of  York  said  to 
his  young  Edward  '  '  Look  to  that  star,  boy,  if  ever,  in  cloud 


344  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

and  trouble,  thou  wouldst  learn  what  safety  dwells  in  the  heart 
which  never  knew  deceit '  !  " 

During  the  banquet,  the  King,  at  whose  table  sate  only  the 
Duke  of  Clarence  and  the  Earl's  family,  was  gracious  as  day 
to  all,  but  especially  to  the  Lady  Anne  ;  attributing  her  sudden 
illness  to  some  cause  not  unflattering  to  himself,  her  beauty, 
which  somewhat  resembled  that  of  the  Queen,  save  that  it  had 
more  advantage  of  expression  and  of  youth,  was  precisely  of 
the  character  he  most  admired.  Even  her  timidity,  and  the 
reserve  with  which  she  answered  him,  had  their  charm ;  for 
like  many  men,  themselves  of  imperious  nature  and  fiery  will, 
he  preferred  even  imbecility  in  a  woman  to  whatever  was 
energetic  or  determined  ;  and  hence,  perhaps,  his  indifference 
to  the  more  dazzling  beauty  of  Isabel.  After  the  feast,  the 
numerous  demoiselles,  high-born  and  fair,  who  swelled  the 
more  than  regal  train  of  the  Countess,  were  assembled  in  the 
long  gallery,  which  was  placed  in  the  third  story  of  the  castle, 
and  served  for  the  principal  state  apartment.  The  dance 
began ;  but  Isabel  excused  herself  from  the  Pavon,  and  the 
King  led  out  the  reluctant  and  melancholy  Anne. 

The  proud  Isabel,  who  had  never  forgiven  Edward's  slight 
to  herself,  resented  deeply  his  evident  admiration  of  her  sister, 
and  conversed  apart  with  the  Archbishop,  whose  subtle  craft 
easily  drew  from  her  lips  confessions  of  an  ambition  higher 
even  than  his  own.  He  neither  encouraged  nor  dissuaded  ;  he 
thought  there  were  things  more  impossible  than  the  accession 
of  Clarence  to  the  throne,  but  he  was  one  who  never  plotted — 
save  for  himself  and  for  the  Church. 

As  the  revel  waned,  the  prelate  approached  the  Earl,  who, 
with  that  remarkable  courtesy  which  charmed  those  below  his 
rank,  and  contrasted  with  his  haughtiness  to  his  peers,  had  well 
played  amongst  his  knights  the  part  of  host,  and  said,  in  a 
whisper  :  "  Edward  is  in  a  happy  mood — let  us  lose  it  not. 
Will  you  trust  me  to  settle  all  differences,  ere  he  sleep?  Two 
proud  men  never  can  agree  without  a  third  of  a  gentler  temper." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Warwick,  smiling,  "yet  the  danger  is, 
that  I  should  rather  concede  too  much,  than  be  too  stubborn. 
But  look  you  ;  all  I  demand  is,  satisfaction  to  mine  own  honor, 
and  faith  to  the  army  I  disbanded  in  the  King's  name." 

"All!"  muttered  the  Archbishop,  as  he  turned  away,  "but 
that  all  is  everything  to  provoke  quarrel  for  you,  and  nothing 
to  bring  power  to  me  !  " 

The  Earl  and  the  Archbishop  attended  the  King  to  his 
chamber,  and  after  Edward  was  served  with  the  parting  refec- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  345 

tion,  or  livery,  the  Earl  said,  with  his  most  open  smile  :  "  Sire, 
there  are  yet  affairs  between  us  ;  whom  will  you  confer  with — 
me  or  the  Archbishop?" 

"Oh!  the  Archbishop,  by  all  means,  fair  cousin,"  cried 
Edward,  no  less  frankly,  "  for  if  you  and  I  are  left  alone,  the 
Saints  help  both  of  us ! — when  flint  and  steel  meet,  fire  flies, 
and  the  house  may  burn." 

The  Earl  half-smiled  at  the  candor,  half-sighed  at  the  levity 
of  the  royal  answer,  and  silently  left  the  room.  The  King, 
drawing  round  him  his  loose  dressing-robe,  threw  himself  upon 
the  gorgeous  coverlid  of  the  bed,  and  lying  at  lazy  length,  mo- 
tioned to  the  prelate  to  seat  himself  at  the  foot.  The  Arch- 
bishop obeyed.  Edward  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  and,  by 
the  light  of  seven  gigantic  tapers,  set  in  sconces  of  massive  sil- 
ver, the  priest  and  the  King  gravely  gazed  on  each  other,  with- 
out speaking. 

At  last,  Edward,  bursting  into  his  hale,  clear,  silvery  laugh, 
said  :  "Confess,  dear  sir  and  cousin — confess  that  we  are  like 
two  skilful  masters  of  Italian  fence,  each  fearing  to  lay  himself 
open  by  commencing  the  attack." 

"Certes,"  quoth  the  Archbishop,  "your  Grace  over-esti- 
mates my  vanity,  in  opining  that  I  deemed  myself  equal  to  so 
grand  a  duello.  If  there  were  dispute  between  us,  I  should 
only  win  by  baring  my  bosom." 

The  King's  bow-like  lip  curved  with  a  slight  sneer,  quickly 
replaced  by  a  serious  and  earnest  expression  :  "Let  us  leave 
word-making,  and  to  the  point,  George.  Warwick  is  displeased 
because  I  will  not  abandon  my  wife's  kindred  ;  you,  with  more 
reason,  because  I  have  taken  from  your  hands  the  chancellor's 
great  seal — " 

"  For  myself,  I  humbly  answer  that  your  Grace  errs.  I  never 
coveted  other  honors  than  those  of  the  Church." 

"  Ay,"  said  Edward,  keenly  examining  the  young  prelate's 
smooth  face,  "  is  it  so  ?  Yes,  now  I  begin  to  comprehend  thee. 
What  offence  have  I  given  to  the  Church  ?  Have  I  suffered 
the  law  too  much  to  sleep  against  the  Lollards  ?  If  so,  blame 
Warwick." 

"On  the  contrary,  sire,  unlike  other  priests,  I  have  ever 
deemed  that  persecution  heals  no  schism.  Blow  not  dying 
embers.  Rather  do  I  think  of  late  that  too  much  severity  hath 
helped  to  aid,  by  Lollard  bows  and  pikes,  the  late  rising.  My 
lady,  the  Queen's  mother,  unjustly  accused  of  witchcraft,  hath 
sought  to  clear  herself,  and  perhaps  too  zealously,  in  exciting 
your  Grace  against  that  invisible  giant — ycleped  heresy." 


346  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"  Pass  on,"  said  Edward.  "  It  is  not  then  indifference  to  the 
ecclesia  that  you  complain  of.  Is  it  neglect  of  the  ecclesiastic  ? 
Ha  !  ha !  you  and  I,  though  young,  know  the  colors  that  make 
up  the  patchwork  world.  Archbishop,  I  love  an  easy  life  ;  if 
your  brother  and  his  friends  will  but  give  me  that,  let  them  take 
all  else.  Again,  I  say,  to  the  point ;  I  cannot  banish  my  lady's 
kindred,  but  I  will  bind  your  house  still  more  to  mine.  I  have 
a  daughter,  failing  male  issue,  the  heiress  to  my  crown.  I  will 
betroth  her  to  your  nephew,  ray  beloved  Montagu's  son.  They 
are  children  yet,  but  their  ages  not  unsuited.  And  when  I  re- 
turn to  London,  young  Nevile  shall  be  Duke  of  Bedford,  a  title 
hitherto  reserved  to  the  royal  race.*  Let  that  be  a  pledge  of 
peace  between  the  Queen's  mother,  bearing  the  same  honors, 
and  the  house  of  Nevile,  to  which  they  pass." 

The  cheek  of  the  Archbishop  flushed  with  proud  pleasure  ; 
he  bowed  his  head,  and  Edward,  ere  he  could  answer,  went  on: 
"  Warwick  is  already  so  high  that,  pardie,  I  have  no  other  step 
to  give  him  save  my  throne  itself,  and  God's  truth,  I  would 
rather  be  Lord  Warwick  than  King  of  England  !  But  for  you — 
listen — our  only  English  cardinal  is  old  and  sickly  ;  whenever 
he  pass  to  Abraham's  bosom,  who  but  you  should  have  the  suf- 
frage of  the  holy  college  ?  Thou  knowest  that  I  am  somewhat 
in  the  good  favor  of  the  sovereign  pontiff.  Command  me  to 
the  utmost.  Now,  George,  are  we  friends  ? " 

The  Archbishop  kissed  the  gracious  hand  extended  to  him, 
and,  surprised  to  find,  as  by  magic,  all  his  schemes  frustrated 
by  sudden  acquiescence  in  the  objects  of  them  all,  his  voice 
faltered  with  real  emotion  as  he  gave  vent  to  his  gratitude. 
But  abruptly  he  checked  himself,  his  brow  lowered,  and  with  a 
bitter  remembrance  of  his  brother's  plain,  blunt  sense  of  honor, 
he  said:  "Yet,  alas,  my  liege,  in  all  this  there  is  nought  to  sat- 
isfy our  stubborn  host." 

"  By  dear  Saint  George  and  my  father's  head  ! "  exclaimed 
Edward,  reddening,  and  starting  to  his  feet,  "  what  would  the 
man  have?" 

*  You  know,"  answered  the  Archbishop,  "  that  Warwick's 
pride  is  only  roused  when  he  deems  his  honor  harmed.  Un- 
happily, as  he  thinks,  by  your  Grace's  full  consent,  he  pledged 
himself  to  the  insurgents  of  Olney  to  the  honorable  dismissal  of 
the  lords  of  the  Woodville  race.  And  unless  this  be  conceded, 
I  fear  me  that  all  else  he  will  reject,  and  the  love  between  ye 
can  be  but  hollow  !  " 

_*  And  indeed  there  was  but  one  Yorkist  duke  then  in  England  out  of  the  royal  family, 
viz.,  the  young  boy,  Buckingham,  who  afterwards  vainly  sought  to  bend  the  Ulysses  bow 
of  Warwick  against  Richard  III. 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  347 

Edward  took  but  three  strides  across  the  chamber,  and  then 
halted  opposite  the  Archbishop,  and  laid  both  hands  on  his 
shoulders,  as,  looking  him  full  in  the  face,  he  said:  "  Answer 
me  frankly,  am  I  a  prisoner  in  these  towers,  or  not  ?  " 

"  Not,  sire." 

"  You  palter  with  me,  priest.  I  have  been  led  hither  against 
my  will.  I  am  almost  without  an  armed  retinue.  I  am  at  the 
Earl's  mercy.  This  chamber  might  be  my  grave,  and  this 
couch  my  bed  of  death." 

"  Holy  Mother  !  Can  you  think  so  of  Warwick  ?  Sire,  you 
freeze  my  blood." 

"  Well,  then,  if  I  refuse  to  satisfy  Warwick's  pride,  and  dis- 
dain to  give  up  loyal  servants  to  rebel  insolence,  what  will 
Warwick  do?  Speak  out,  Archbishop." 

"  I  fear  me,  sire,  that  he  will  resign  all  office,  whether  of 
peace  or  war.  I  fear  me  that  the  goodly  army  now  at  sleep 
within  and  around  these  walls  will  vanish  into  air,  and  that 
your  Highness  will  stand  alone  amidst  new  men,  and  against 
the  disaffection  of  the  whole  land  !  " 

Edward's  firm  hand  trembled.  The  prelate  continued,  with 
a  dry,  caustic  smile  : 

"  Sire,  Sir  Anthony  Woodville,  now  Lord  Rivers,  has  relieved 
you  of  all  embarrassment ;  no  doubt,  my  Lord  Dorset  and  his 
kinsmen  will  be  chevaliers  enough  to  do  the  same.  The 
Duchess  of  Bedford  will  but  suit  the  decorous  usage  to  retire 
awhile  into  privacy,  to  mourn  her  widowhood.  And  when  a 
year  is  told,  if  these  noble  persons  re-appear  at  court,  your 
word  and  the  Earl's  will  at  least  have  been  kept." 

"  I  "understand  thee,"  said  the  King,  half-laughing;  "but  I 
have  my  pride  as  well  as  Warwick.  To  concede  this  point  is 
to  humble  the  conceder." 

"  I  have  thought  how  to  soothe  all  things,  and  without 
humbling  either  party.  Your  Grace's  mother  is  dearly  beloved 
by  Warwick,  and  revered  by  all.  Since  your  marriage  she  hath 
lived  secluded  from  all  state  affairs.  And  so  nearly  akin  to 
Warwick — so  deeply  interested  in  your  Grace — she  is  a  fitting 
mediator  in  all  disputes.  Be  they  left  to  her  to  arbitrate." 

"  Ah  !  cunning  prelate,  thou  knowest  how  my  proud  mother 
hates  the  Woodvilles — thou  knowest  how  her  judgment  will 
decide." 

"  Perhaps  so  ;  but  at  least  your  Grace  will  be  spared  all 
pain  and  all  abasement." 

"  Will  Warwick  consent  to  this  ?  " 

"  I  trust  so." 


348  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

"  Learn  and  report  to  me.  Enough  for  to-night's  confei 
ence." 

Edward  was  left  alone,  and  his  mind  ran  rapidly  over  tlu- 
field  of  action  open  to  him. 

"  I  have  half-won  the  Earl's  army,"  he  thought  ;  "  but  it 
would  be  to  lose  all  hold  in  their  hearts  again,  if  they  knew 
that  these  unhappy  Woodvilles  were  the  cause  of  a  second 
breach  between  us.  Certes,  the  Lancastrians  are  making 
strong  head !  Certes,  the  times  must  be  played  with  and 
appeased  !  And  yet  these  poor  gentlemen  love  me  after  my 
own  fashion,  and  not  with  the  bear's  hug  of  that  intolerable 
Earl.  How  came  the  grim  man  by  so  fair  a  daughter  ?  Sweet 
Anne  !  I  caught  her  eye  often  fixed  on  me,  and  with  a  soft 
fear  which  my  heart  beat  loud  to  read  aright.  Verily,  this  is 
the  fourth  week  I  have  passed  without  hearing  a  woman's 
sigh  !  What  marvel  that  so  fair  a  face  enamours  me  !  Would 
that  Warwick  made  her  his  ambassador  ;  and  yet  it  were  all 
over  with  the  Woodvilles  if  he  did  !  These  men  know  not  how 
to  manage  me,  and  well-a-day,  that  task  is  easy  eno'  to  women  ! " 

He  laughed  gayly  to  himself  as  he  thus  concluded  his  solilo- 
quy, and  extinguished  the  tapers.  But  rest  did  not  come  to 
his  pillow:  and  after  tossing  to  and  fro  for  some  time  in  vain 
search  for  sleep,  he  rose  and  opened  his  casement  to  cool  the 
air  which  the  tapers  had  overheated.  In  a  single  casement  in 
a  broad  turret,  projecting  from  an  angle  in  the  building,  below 
the  tower  in  which  his  chamber  was  placed,  the  King  saw  a 
solitary  light  burning  steadily.  A  sight  so  unusual  at  such  an 
hour  s.urprised  him.  "  Peradventure,  the  wily  prelate,"  thought 
he.  "Cunning  never  sleeps."  But  a  second  look  showed  him 
the  very  form  that  chased  his  slumbers.  Beside  the  casement, 
which  was  partially  open,  he  saw  the  soft  profile  of  the  Lady 
Anne  ;  it  was  bent  downwards  ;  and  what  with  the  clear  moon- 
light, and  the  lamp  within  her  chamber,  he  could  see  distinctly 
that  she  was  weeping.  "Ah!  Anne,"  muttered  the  amorous 
King,  "  would  that  I  were  by  to  kiss  away  those  tears  !  "  While 
yet  the  unholy  wish  murmured  on  his  lips,  the  lady  rose.  The 
fair  hand,  that  seemed  almost  transparent  in  the  moonlight, 
closed  the  casement  ;  and  though  the  light  lingered  for  some 
minutes  ere  it  left  the  dark  walls  of  the  castle  without  other 
sign  of  life  than  the  step  of  the  sentry,  Anne  was  visible  no 
more. 

"  Madness  —  madness  —  madness  !  "  again  murmured  the 
King.  "  These  Neviles  are  fatal  to  me  in  all  ways — in  hatred 
or  in  love  !  " 


THE   LAST    OK    THE   BARONS.  349 

BOOK  VIII. 

IN  WHICH  THE  LAST  LINK  BETWEEN  KING-MAKER  AND 
KING  SNAPS  ASUNDER. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  LADY  ANNE  VISITS  THE  COURT. 

IT  was  some  weeks  after  the  date  of  the  events  last  recorded. 
The  storm  that  hung  over  the  destinies  of  King  Edward  was 
dispersed  for  the  hour,  though  the  scattered  clouds  still  dark- 
ened the  horizon  :  the  Earl  of  Warwick  had  defeated  the 
Lancastrians  on  the  frontier,*  and  their  leader  had  perished  on 
the  scaffold,  but  Edward's  mighty  sword  had  not  shone  in  the 
battle.  Chained  by  an  attraction  yet  more  powerful  than 
slaughter,  he  had  lingered  at  Middleham,  while  Warwick  led 
his  army  to  York  ;  and  when  the  Earl  arrived  at  the  capital 
of  Edward's  ancestral  duchy,  he  found  that  the  able  and  active 
Hastings — having  heard,  even  before  he  reached  the  Duke 
of  Gloucester's  camp,  of  Edward's  apparent  seizure  by  the 
Earl  and  the  march  to  Middleham — had  deemed  it  best  to 
halt  at  York,  and  to  summon  in  all  haste  a  council  of  such  of 
the  knights  and  barons,  as  either  love  to  the  King  or  envy  to 
Warwick  could  collect.  The  report  was  general  that  Edward 
was  detained  against  his  will  at  Middleham,  and  this  rumor 
Hastings  gravely  demanded  Warwick,  on  the  arrival  of  the 
latter  at  York,  to  disprove.  The  Earl,  to  clear  himself  from  a 
suspicion  that  impeded  all  his  military  movements,  dispatched 
Lord  Montagu  to  Middleham,  who  returned  not  only  with  the 
King,  but  the  Countess  and  her  daughters,  whom  Edward,  un- 
der pretence  of  proving  the  complete  amity  that  existed  be- 
tween Warwick  and  himself,  carried  in  his  train.  The  King's 
appearance  at  York  reconciled  all  differences.  But  he  suffered 
Warwick  to  march  alone  against  the  enemy,  and  not  till  after 
the  decisive  victory,  which  left  his  reign  for  a  while  without  an 
open  foe,  did  he  return  to  London. 

Thither  the  Earl,  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  also  repaired, 
and  in  a  council  of  peers,  summoned  for  the  purpose,  deigned 
to  refute  the  rumors  still  commonly  circulated  by  his  foes,  and 
not  disbelieved  by  the  vulgar,  whether  of  his  connivance  at 

*  Croyl,  55j, 


350  THE    LAST    PI'    THE    BARONS. 

the  popular  rising,  or  his  forcible  detention  of  the  King  at  Mid- 
dleham.  To  this,  agreeably  to  the  council  of  the  Archbishop, 
succeeded  a  solemn  interview  of  the  heads  of  the  houses  of  York 
and  Warwick,  in  which  the  once  fair  Rose  of  Raby  (the  King's 
mother)  acted  as  mediator  and  arbiter.  The  Earl's  word  to 
the  Commons  at  Olney  was  ratified.  Edward  consented  to  the 
temporary  retirement  of  the  Woodvilles,  though  the  gallant 
Anthony  yet  delayed  his  pilgrimage  to  Compostella.  The 
vanity  of  Clarence  was  contented  by  the  government  of  Ire- 
land, but,  under  various  pretences,  Edward  deferred  his  bro- 
ther's departure  to  that  important  post.  A  general  amnesty 
was  proclaimed,  a  Parliament  summoned  for  the  redress  of 
popular  grievances,  and  the  betrothal  of  the  King's  daughter 
to  Montagu's  heir  was  proclaimed  ;  the  latter  received  the 
title  of  Duke  of  Bedford  ;  and  the  whole  land  rejoiced  in  the 
recovered  peace  of  the  realm,  the  retirement  of  the  Woodvilles, 
and  the  reconciliation  of  the  young  King  with  his  all-beloved 
subject.  Never  had  the  power  of  the  Neviles  seemed  so  se- 
cure— never  did  the  throne  of  Edward  appear  so  stable. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  King  prevailed  upon  the  Earl 
and  his  Countess  to  permit  the  Lady  Anne  to  accompany  the 
Duchess  of  Clarence  in  a  visit  to  the  palace  of  the  Tower.  The 
Queen  had  submitted  so  graciously  to  the  humiliation  of  her 
family,  that  even  the  haughty  Warwick  was  touched  and 
softened  ;  and  the  visit  of  his  daughter  at  such  a  time  became 
a  homage  to  Elizabeth,  which  it  suited  his  chivalry  to  render. 
The  public  saw  in  this  visit,  which  was  made  with  great  state 
and  ceremony,  the  probability  of  a  new  and  popular  alliance. 
The  Archbishop  had  suffered  the  rumor  of  Gloucester's  attach- 
ment to  the  Lady  Anne  to  get  abroad,  and  the  young  Prince's 
return  from  the  north  was  anxiously  expected  by  the  gossips  of 
the  day. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  Warwick  showed  his  gratitude 
for  Marmaduke  Nevile's  devotion.  "  My  dear  and  gallant 
kinsman,"  he  said,  "  I  forget  not  that  when  thou  didst  leave 
the  King  and  the  court  for  the  discredited  minister  and  his 
gloomy  hall — I  forget  not  that  thou  didst  tell  me  of  love  to 
some  fair  maiden,  which  had  not  prospered  according  to  thy 
merits.  At  least  it  shall  not  be  from  lack  of  lands,  or  of  the 
gold  spur,  which  allows  the  wearer  to  ride  by  the  side  of 
king  or  kaisar,  that  thou  canst  not  choose  thy  bride  as  the 
heart  bids  thee.  I  pray  thee,  sweet  cousin,  to  attend  my 
child  Anne  to  the  court,  where  the  King  will  show  thee  no 
ungracious  countenance  ;  but  it  is  just  to  recompense  thee  for 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  351 

the  loss  of  thy  post  in  his  Highness's  chamber.  I  hold  the 
King's  commission  to  make  knights  of  such  as  can  pay  the  fee, 
and  thy  lands  shall  suffice  for  the  dignity.  Kneel  down,  and 
rise  up,  Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile,  Lord  of  the  Manor  of  Borro- 
daile,  with  its  woodlands  and  its  farms,  and  may  God  and  Our 
Lady  render  thee  puissant  in  battle  and  prosperous  in  love  ! " 

Accordingly,  in  his  new  rank,  and  entitled  to  ruffle  it  with 
the  bravest,  Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile  accompanied  the  Earl  and 
the  Lady  Anne  to  the  palace  of  the  Tower. 

As  Warwick,  leaving  his  daughter  amidst  the  brilliant  circle 
that  surrounded  Elizabeth,  turned  to  address  the  King,  he 
said,  with  simple  and  unaffected  nobleness  : 

"  Ah,  my  liege,  if  you  needed  a  hostage  of  my  faith,  think 
that  my  heart  is  here,  for  verily  its  best  blood  were  less  dear 
to  me  than  that  slight  girl — the  likeness  of  her  mother  when 
her  lips  first  felt  the  touch  of  mine  !  " 

Edward's  bold  brow  fell,  and  he  blushed  as  he  answered  : 
"  My  Elizabeth  will  hold  her  as  a  sister.  But,  cousin,  part  you 
not  now  for  the  north  ? " 

"  By  your  leave,  I  go  first  to  Warwick." 

"  Ah  !  you  do  not  wish  to  approve  of  my  seeming  prepara- 
tions against  France  !  " 

"  Nay,  your  Highness  is  not  in  earnest.  I  promised  the  Com- 
mons that  you  would  need  no  supplies  for  so  thriftless  a  war." 

"  Thou  knowest  I  mean  to  fulfil  all  thy  pledges.  But  the 
country  so  swarms  with  disbanded  soldiers  that  it  is  politic  to 
hold  out  to  them  a  hope  of  service,  and  so  let  the  clouds  gradu- 
ally pass  away." 

"  Alack,  my  liege  ! "  said  Warwick  gravely.  "  I  suppose 
that  a  crown  teaches  the  brow  to  scheme  ;  but  hearty  peace  or 
open  war  seems  ever  the  best  to  me." 

Edward  smiled  and  turned  aside.  Warwick  glanced  at  his 
daughter,  whom  Elizabeth  flatteringly  caressed,  stifled  a  sigh, 
and  the  air  seemed  lighter  to  the  insects  of  the  court  as  his 
proud  crest  bowed  beneath  the  doorway,  and,  with  the  pomp 
of  his  long  retinue,  he  vanished  from  the  scene. 

"And  choose, fair  Anne,"  said  the  Queen,  "  choose  from  my 
ladies,  whom  you  will  have  for  your  special  train.  We  would 
not  that  your  attendance  should  be  less  than  royal." 

The  gentle  Anne  in  vain  sought  to  excuse  herself  from  an 
honor  at  once  arrogant  and  invidious,  though  too  innocent  to 
perceive  the  cunning  so  characteristic  of  the  Queen  ;  for  under 
the  guise  of  a  special  compliment,  Anne  had  received  the  royal 
request  to  have  her  female  attendants  chosen  from  the  court,  and 


35-  'I' HE    LAST    OF    THK    KARONS. 

Elizabeth  now  desired  to  force  upon  her  a  selection  which  could 
not  fail  to  mortify  those  not  preferred.  But  glancing  timidly 
round  the  circle,  the  noble  damsel's  eye  rested  on  one  fair  face, 
and  in  that  face  there  was  so  much  that  awoke  her  own  interest, 
and  stirred  up  a  fond  and  sad  remembrance,  that  she  passed 
involuntarily  to  the  stranger's  side,  and  artlessly  took  her  hand. 
The  high-born  maidens  grouped  around  glanced  at  each  other 
with  a  sneer,  and  slunk  back.  Even  the  Queen  looked  sur- 
prised, but  recovering  herself,  inclined  her  head  graciously, 
and  said  :  "  Do  we  read  your  meaning  aright,  Lady  Anne,  and 
would  you  this  gentlewoman,  Mistress  Sibyll  Warner,  as  one  of 
your  chamber  ?" 

"  Sibyll,  ah,  I  knew  that  my  memory  failed  me  not,"  mur- 
mured Anne  ;  and,  after  bowing  assent  to  the  Queen,  she  said  : 
"  Do  you  not  also  recall,  fair  demoiselle,  our  meeting,  when 
children,  long  years  ago?" 

"  Well,  noble  dame,"  *  answered  Sibyll.  And  as  Anne  turned, 
with  her  air  of  modest  gentleness,  yet  of  lofty  birth  and  breed- 
ing, to  explain  to  the  Queen  that  she  had  met  Sibyll  in  earlier 
years,  the  King  approached  to  monopolize  his  guest's  voice 
and  ear.  It  seemed  natural  to  all  present  that  Edward  should 
devote  peculiar  attention  to  the  daughter  of  Warwick  and  the 
sister  of  the  Duchess  of  Clarence  :  and  even  Elizabeth  sus- 
pected no  guiltier  gallantry  in  the  subdued  voice,  the  caressing 
manner,  which  her  handsome  lord  adopted  throughout  that 
day,  even  to  the  close  of  the  nightly  revel,  towards  a  demois- 
elle too  high  (it  might  well  appear)  for  licentious  homage. 

But  Anne  herself,  though  too  guileless  to  suspect  the  nature 
of  Edward's  courtesy,  yet  shrunk  from  it  in  vague  terror.  All 
his  beauty,  all  his  fascination,  could  not  root  from  her  mind  the 
remembrance  of  the  exiled  Prince — nay,  the  brilliancy  of  his 
qualities  made  her  the  more  averse  to  him.  It  darkened  the 
prospects  of  Edward  of  Lancaster  that  Edward  of  York  should 
wear  so  gracious  and  so  popular  a  form.  She  hailed  with 
delight  the  hour  when  she  was  conducted  to  her  chamber,  and 
dismissing  gently  the  pompous  retinue  allotted  to  her,  found 
herself  alone  with  the  young  maiden  whom  she  had  elected  to 
her  special  service. 

"  And  you  remember  me,  too,  fair  Sibyll  ? "  said  Anne,  with 
her  dulcet  and  endearing  voice. 

'  Truly,  who  would  not  ?  for  as  you,  then,  noble  lady,  glided 
apart  from  the  other  children,  hand  in  hand  with  the  young 

*  The  title  of  Dame  was  at  that  time  applied  indiscriminately  to  ladies,  whether  married 
pr  single,  if  of  high  birth, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  353 

Prince,  in  whom  all  dreamed  to  see  their  future  King — I  heard 
the  universal  murmur  of — a  false  prophecy  !  " 

"  Ah  !  and  of  what  ?  "  asked  Anne. 

"  That  in  the  hand  the  Prince  clasped,  with  his  small  rosy 
fingers — the  hand  of  great  Warwick's  daughter — lay  the  best 
defence  of  his  father's  throne." 

Anne's  breast  heaved,  and  her  small  foot  began  to  mark 
strange  characters  on  the  floor. 

"  So,"  she  said  musingly,  "so,  even  here,  amidst  a  new  court, 
you  forget  not  Prince  Edward  of  Lancaster.  Oh,  we  shall  find 
hours  to  talk  of  the  past  days.  But  how,  if  your  childhood 
was  spent  in  Margaret's  court,  does  your  youth  find  a  welcome 
in  Elizabeth's  ? " 

"  Avarice  and  power  had  need  of  my  father's  science.  He 
is  a  scholar  of  good  birth,  but  fallen  fortunes — even  now,  and 
ever  while  night  lasts,  he  is  at  work.  I  belonged  to  the  train 
of  her  Grace  of  Bedford,  but  when  the  Duchess  quitted  the 
court,  and  the  King  retained  my  father  in  his  own  royal  service, 
her  Highness  the  Queen  was  pleased  to  receive  me  among  her 
maidens.  Happy  that  my  father's  home  is  mine — who  else 
could  tend  him  !  " 

"  Thou  art  his  only  child  ?     He  must  love  thee  dearly  ?  " 

"  Yet  not  as  I  love  him — he  lives  in  a  life  apart  from  all  else 
that  live.  But,  after  all,  peradventure  it  is  sweeter  to  love  than 
to  be  loved." 

Anne,  whose  nature  was  singularly  tender  and  womanlike,  was 
greatly  affected  by  this  answer  ;  she  drew  nearer  to  Sibyll  ;  she 
twined  her  arm  round  her  slight  form,  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

"  Shall  /  love  thee,  Sibyll  ? "  she  said,  with  a  girl's  candid 
simplicity,  "And  wilt  thou  love  me  ?" 

"  Ah,  lady  !  there  are  so  many  to  love  thee  ;  father,  mother, 
sister — all  the  world  ;  the  very  sun  shines  more  kindly  upon 
the  great ! " 

"  Nay  !  "  said  Anne,  with  that  jealousy  of  a  claim  to  suffer- 
ing, to  which  the  gentler  natures  are  prone,  "  I  may  have  sor- 
rows from  which  thou  art  free.  I  confess  to  thee,  Sibyll,  that 
something,  I  know  not  how  to  explain,  draws  me  strangely 
towards  thy  sweet  face.  Marriage  has  lost  me  my  only  sister — 
for  since  Isabel  is  wed,  she  is  changed  to  me — would  that  her 
place  was  supplied  by  thee  !  Shall  I  steal  thee  from  the  Queen, 
when  I  depart  ?  Ah  !  my  mother — at  least  thou  wilt  love  her  ! 
for,  verily,  to  love  my  mother  you  have  but  to  breathe  the  same 
air.  Kiss  me,  Sibyll." 

Kindness,  of  late,  had.  been  strange  to  Sibyll,  especially  from 


354  THK  LAST  OF  THR  KARONS. 

her  own  sex,  one  of  her  own  age  ;  it  came  like  morning 
upon  the  folded  blossom.  She  threw  her  arms  round  the  new 
friend  that  seemed  sent  to  her  from  heaven  ;  she  kissed  Anne's 
face  and  hands  with  grateful  tears. 

"  Ah  !  "  she  said,  at  last,  when  she  could  command  a  voice 
still  broken  with  emotion  "  if  I  could  ever  serve — ever  repay 
thee — though  those  gracious  words  were  the  last  thy  lips  should 
ever  deign  to  address  to  me  !  " 

Anne  was  delighted  ;  she  had  never  yet  found  one  to  pro- 
tect ;  she  had  never  yet  found  one  in  whom  thoroughly  to 
confide.  Gentle  as  her  mother  was,  the  distinction  between 
child  and  parent  was,  even  in  the  fond  family  she  belonged  to, 
so  great  in  that  day,  that  she  could  never  have  betrayed  to  the 
Countess  the  wild  weakness  of  her  young  heart. 

The  wish  to  communicate — to  reveal — is  so  natural  to  ex- 
treme youth,  and  in  Anne  that  disposition  was  so  increased  by 
a  nature  at  once  open  and  inclined  to  lean  on  others,  that  she 
had,  as  we  have  seen,  sought  a  confidant  in  Isabel ;  but  with 
her,  even  at  the  first,  she  found  but  the  half-contemptuous  pity 
of  a  strong  and  hard  mind ;  and,  lately,  since  Edward's  visit 
to  Middleham,  the  Duchess  of  Clarence  had  been  so  wrapt  in 
her  own  imperious  egotism  and  discontented  ambition,  that 
the  timid  Anne  had  not  even  dared  to  touch,  with  her,  upon 
those  secrets  which  it  flushed  her  own  bashful  cheek  to  recall. 
And  this  visit  to  the  court — this  new,  unfamiliar  scene — this 
estrangement  from  all  the  old  accustomed  affections,  had  pro- 
duced in  her  that  sense  of  loneliness  which  is  so  irksome,  till 
grave  experience  of  real  life  accustoms  us  to  the  common  lot.  So 
with  the  exaggerated  and  somewhat  morbid  sensibility  that  be- 
longed to  her,  she  turned  at  once,  and  by  impulse,  to  this  sudden, 
yet  graceful,  friendship.  Here  was  one  of  her  own  age — one 
who  had  known  sorrow — one  whose  voice  and  eyes  charmed 
her — one  who  would  not  chide  even  folly — one,  above  all,  who 
had  seen  her  beloved  Prince — one  associated  with  her  fondest 
memories — one  who  might  have  a  thousand  tales  to  tell  of  the 
day  when  the  outlaw-boy  was  a  monarch's  heir.  In  the  child- 
ishness of  her  soft  years,  she  almost  wept  at  another  channel 
for  so  much  natural  tenderness.  It  was  half  the  woman  gain- 
ing a  woman-friend — half  the  child  clinging  to  a  new  playmate. 

"Ah,  Sibyll!"  she  whispered,  "do  not  leave  me  to-night — 
this  strange  place  daunts  me,  and  the  figures  on  the  arras  seems 
so  tall  and  spectre-like — and  they  say  the  old  tower  i$ 
haunted.  Stay,  dear  Sibyll!" 

And,  Sibyll  stayed. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  355 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE    SLEEPING    INNOCENCE THE    WAKEFUL    CRIME. 

WHILE  these  charming  girls  thus  innocently  conferred ; 
while,  Anne's  sweet  voice  running  on  in  her  artless  fancies, 
they  helped  each  other  to  undress ;  while  hand  in  hand  they 
knelt  in  prayer  by  the  crucifix  in  the  dim  recess;  while  timidly 
they  extinguished  the  light,  and  stole  to  rest ;  while,  convers- 
ing in  whispers,  growing  gradually  more  faint  and  low,  they 
sank  into  guileless  sleep — the  unholy  King  paced  his  solitary 
chamber,  parched  with  the  fever  of  the  sudden  and  frantic 
passion,  that  swept  away  from  a  heart,  in  which  every  impulse 
was  a  giant,  all  the  memories  of  honor,  gratitude,  and  law. 

The  mechanism  of  this  strong  man's  nature  was  that  almost 
unknown  to  the  modern  time ;  it  belonged  to  those  earlier  days 
which  furnish  to  Greece  the  terrible  legends  Ovid  has  clothed 
in  gloomy  fire,  which  a  similar  civilization  produced  no  less  in 
the  Middle  Ages,  whether  of  Italy  or  the  North — that  period 
when  crime  took  a  grandeur  from  its  excess ;  when  power  was 
so  great  and  absolute,  that  its  girth  burst  the  ligaments  of  con- 
science; when  a  despot  was  but  the  incarnation  of  WILL  ;  when 
honor  was  indeed  a  religion,  but  its  faith  was  valor,  and  it 
wrote  its  decalogue  with  the  point  of  a  fearless  sword. 

The  youth  of  Edward  IV.  was  as  the  youth  of  an  ancient 
Titan — of  an  Italian  Borgia ;  through  its  veins  the  hasty  blood 
rolled  as  a  devouring  flame.  This  impetuous  and  fiery  tem- 
perament was  rendered  yet  more  fearful  by  the  indulgence  of 
every  intemperance ;  it  fed  on  wine  and  lust ;  its  very  virtues 
strengthened  its  vices ;  its  courage  stifled  every  whisper  of  pru- 
dence; its  intellect,  uninured  to  all  discipline,  taught  it  to  dis- 
dain every  obstacle  to  its  desires.  Edward  could,  indeed,  as 
we  have  seen,  be  false  and  crafty — a  temporizer — a  dissimula- 
tor— but  it  was  only  as  the  tiger  creeps,  the  better  to  spring, 
undetected,  on  its  prey.  If  detected,  the  cunning  ceased,  the 
daring  rose,  and  the  mighty  savage  had  fronted  ten  thousand 
foes,  secure  in  its  fangs  and  talons,  its  bold  heart,  and  its 
deadly  spring.  Hence,  with  all  Edward's  abilities,  the  aston- 
ishing levities  and  indiscretions  of  his  younger  years.  It  al- 
most seemed,  as  we  have  seen  him  play  fast  and  loose  with  the 
might  of  Warwick,  and  with  that  power,  whether  of  barons  or 
of  people,  which  any  other  prince  of  half  his  talents  would 
have  trembled  to  arouse  against  an  unrooted  throne — it  almost 
geeme#  as  if  he  loved  to  provoke  a  danger,  for  the  pleasure  it 


356  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

i;a\v  the  brain  to  baffle,  or  the  hand  to  crush  it.  His  whole 
nature  coveting  excitement,  nothing  was  left  to  the  beautiful, 
the  luxurious  Edward,  already  wearied  with  pomp  and  pleas- 
ure, but  what  was  unholy  and  forbidden.  In  his  court  were  a 
hundred  ladies,  perhaps  not  less  fair  than  Anne,  at  least  of  a 
beauty  more  commanding  the  common  homage,  but  these  he 
had  only  to  smile  on,  with  ease  to  win.  No  awful  danger,  no 
inexpiable  guilt,  attended  those  vulgar  frailties,  and  therefore 
they  ceased  to  tempt.  But  here  the  virgin  guest,  the  daughtei 
of  his  mightiest  subject,  the  beloved  treasure  of  the  man  whose 
hand  had  built  a  throne,  whose  word  had  dispersed  an  army — 
here,  the  more  the  reason  warned,  the  conscience  started,  the 
more  the  hell-born  passion  was  aroused ! 

Like  men  of  his  peculiar  constitution,  Edward  was  wholly 
incapable  of  pure  and  steady  love.  His  affection  for  his  Queen 
the  most  resembled  that  diviner  affection ;  but  when  analyzed, 
it  was  composed  of  feelings  widely  distinct.  From  a  sudden 
passion,  not  otherwise  to  be  gratified,  he  had  made  the  rashest 
sacrifices  for  an  unequal  marriage.  His  vanity,  and  something 
of  original  magnanimity,  despite  his  vices,  urged  him  to  pro- 
tect what  he  himself  had  raised,  to  secure  the  honor  of  the  sub- 
ject who  was  honored  by  the  King.  In  common  with  most 
rude  and  powerful  natures,  he  was  strongly  alive  to  the  affec- 
tions of  a  father,  and  the  faces  of  his  children  helped  to  main- 
tain the  influence  of  the  mother.  But  in  all  this,  we  need 
scarcely  say  that  that  true  love,  which  is  at  once  a  passion  and 
a  devotion,  existed  not.  Love  with  him  cared  not  for  the  per- 
son loved,  but  solely  for  its  own  gratification;  it  was  desire  for 
possession — nothing  more.  But  that  desire  was  the  will  of  a 
king  who  never  knew  fear  or  scruple;  and,  pampered  by  eter- 
nal indulgence,  it  was  to  the  feeble  lusts  of  common  men  what 
the  storm  is  to  the  west  wind.  Yet  still,  as  in  the  solitude  of 
night  he  paced  his  chamber,  the  shadow  of  the  great  crime  ad- 
vancing upon  his  soul  appalled  even  that  dauntless  conscience. 
He  gasped  for  breath — his  cheek  flushed  crimson,  and  the  next 
moment  grew  deadly  pale.  He  heard  the  loud  beating  of  his 
heart.  He  stopped  still.  He  flung  himself  on  a  seat,  and  hid 
his  face  with  his  hands;  then  starting  up,  he  exclaimed:  "No — 
no!  I  cannot  shut  out  that  sweet  face,  those  blue  eyes,  from 
my  gaze.  They  haunt  me  to  my  destruction  and  her  own. 
Yet  why  say  destruction?  If  she  love  me,  who  shall  know  the 
deed;  if  she  love  me  not,  will  she  dare  to  reveal  her  shame? 
Shame — nay,  a  king's  embrace  never  dishonors.  A  king's  bas- 
tard i§  a  house's  pride,  All  is  still— the  very  mpon  vanishes 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  357 

from  heaven.  The  noiseless  rushes  in  the  gallery  give  no 
echo  to  the  footstep.  Fie  on  me !  Can  a  Plantagenet  know 
fear?"  He  allowed  himself  no  further  time  to  pause;  he 
opened  the  door  gently,  and  stole  along  the  gallery.  He  knew 
well  the  chamber,  for  it  was  appointed  by  his  command;  and, 
besides  the  usual  door  from  the  corridor,  a  small  closet  con- 
ducted to  a  secret  panel  behind  the  arras.  It  was  the  apart- 
ment occupied,  in  her  visits  to  the  court,  by  the  Queen's  rival, 
the  Lady  Elizabeth  Lucy.  He  passed  into  the  closet — he 
lifted  the  arras — he  stood  in  that  chamber  which  gratitude,  and 
chivalry,  and  hospitable  faith,  should  have  made  sacred  as  a 
shrine.  And  suddenly,  as  he  entered,  the  moon,  before  hid 
beneath  a  melancholy  cloud,  broke  forth  in  awful  splendor, 
and  her  light  rushed  through  the  casement  opposite  his  eye, 
and  bathed  the  room  with  the  beams  of  a  ghostlier  day. 

The  abruptness  of  the  solemn  and  mournful  glory  scared 
him  as  the  rebuking  face  of  a  living  thing:  a  presence  as  if  not 
of  earth  seemed  to  interpose  between  the  victim  and  the  guilt. 
It  was,  however,  but  for  a  moment  that  his  step  halted.  He 
advanced :  he  drew  aside  the  folds  of  the  curtain  heavy  with 
tissue  of  gold,  and  the  sleeping  face  of  Anne  lay  hushed  be- 
fore him.  It  looked  pale  in  the  moonlight,  but  ineffably 
serene,  and  the  smile  on  its  lips  seemed  still  sweeter  than  that 
which  it  wore  awake.  So  fixed  was  his  gaze — so  ardently  did 
his  whole  heart  and  being  feed  through  his  eyes  upon  that  ex- 
quisite picture  of  innocence  and  youth,  that  he  did  not  see  for 
some  moments  that  the  sleeper  was  not  alone.  Suddenly  an 
exclamation  rose  to  his  lips;  he  clenched  his  hand  in  jealous 
agony;  he  approached — he  bent  over — he  heard  the  regular 
breathing  which  the  dreams  of  guilt  never  know,  and  then, 
when  he  saw  that  pure  and  interlaced  embrace — the  serene  yet 
somewhat  melancholy  face  of  Sibyll,  which  seemed  hueless  as 
marble  in  the  moonlight — bending  partially  over  that  of  Anne, 
as  if,  even  in  sleep,  watchful — both  charming  forms  so  linked  and 
woven  that  the  two  seemed  as  one  life,  the  very  breath  in  each 
rising  and  ebbing  with  the  other,  the  dark  ringlets  of  Sibyll 
mingling  with  the  auburn  gold  of  Anne's  luxuriant  hair,  and 
the  darkness  and  the  gold,  tress  within  tress,  falling  impartially 
over  either  neck,  that  gleamed  like  ivory  beneath  that  common 
veil — when  he  saw  this  twofold  loveliness,  the  sentiment — the 
conviction  of  that  mysterious  defence  which  exists  in  purity — 
thrilled  like  ice  through  his  burning  veins.  In  all  his  might  of 
monarch  and  of  man,  he  felt  the  awe  of  that  unlooked-for 
protection — maidenhood  sheltering  maidenhood — innocence 


35$  THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

guarding  innocence.  The  double  virtue  appalled  and  baffled 
him ;  and  that  slight  arm  which  encircled  the  neck  he  would 
have  perilled  his  realm  to  clasp,  shielded  his  victim  more  effect- 
ually than  the  bucklers  of  all  the  warriors  that  ever  gathered 
round  the  banner  of  the  lofty  Warwick.  Night  and  the  occa- 
sion befriended  him ;  but  in  vain.  While  Sibyll  was  there, 
Anne  was  saved.  He  ground  his  teeth,  and  muttered  to  him- 
self. At  that  moment  Anne  turned  restlessly.  This  move- 
ment disturbed  the  light  sleep  of  her  companion.  She  spoke 
half-inaudibly,  but  the  sound  was  as  the  hoot  of  shame  in  the 
ear  of  the  guilty  King.  He  let  fall  the  curtain,  and  was  gone. 
And  if  one  who  lived  afterwards  to  hear,  and  to  credit,  the 
murderous  doom  which,  unless  history  lies,  closed  the  male 
line  of  Edward,  had  beheld  the  King  stealing,  felon-like,  from 
the  chamber,  his  step  reeling  to  and  fro  the  gallery  floors:  his  face 
distorted  by  stormy  passion  ;  his  lips  white  and  murmuring ;  his 
beauty  and  his  glory  dimmed  and  humbled — the  spectator 
might  have  half  believed  that  while  Edward  gazed  upon  those 
harmless  sleepers,  A  VISION  OF  THE  TRAGEDY  TO  COME  had 
stricken  down  his  thought  of  guilt,  and  filled  up  its  place  with 
horror — a  vision  of  a  sleep  as  pure — of  two  forms  wrapped  in 
an  embrace  as  fond — of  intruders  meditating  a  crime  scarce 
fouler  than  his  own ;  and  the  sins  of  the  father  starting  into 
grim  corporeal  shapes,  to  become  the  deathsmen  of  the  sons ! 


CHAPTER  III. 

;-.'».W  DANGERS  TO  THE  HOUSE  OF  YORK — AND  THE  KING'S 
HEART  ALLIES  ITSELF  WITH  REBELLION  AGAINST  THE 
KING'S  THRONE. 

OH!  beautiful  is  the  love  of  youth  to  youth,  and  touching 
the  tenderness  of  womanhood  to  woman;  and  fair  in  the  eyes 
of  the  happy  sun  is  the  waking  of  holy  sleep,  and  the  virgin 
kiss  upon  virgin  lips  smiling  and  murmuring  the  sweet  "Good- 
morrow!" 

Anne  was  the  first  to  wake ;  and  as  the  bright  winter  morn, 
robust  with  frosty  sunbeams,  shone  cheerily  upon  Sibyll.'s  face, 
she  was  struck  with  a  beauty  she  had  not  sufficiently  observed 
the  day  before ;  for  in  the  sleep  of  the  young  the  traces  of 
thought  and  care  vanish,  the  aching  heart  is  lulled  in  the 
body's  rest,  the  hard  lines  relax  into  flexile  ease,  a  softer, 
warmer  bloom  steals  over  the  cheek,  and,  relieved  from  the 
stiff  restraints  of  dress,  the  rounded  limbs  repose  in  a  more 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  359 

alluring  grace!  Youth  seems  younger  in  its  slumbar,  and 
beauty  more  beautiful,  and  purity  more  pure.  Long  and  dark, 
the  fringe  of  the  eyelash  rested  upon  the  white  lids,  and  the 
freshness  of  the  parting  pouted  lips  invited  the  sister  kiss  that 
wakened  up  the  sleeper. 

"Ah!  lady,"  said  Sibyll,  parting  her  tresses  from  her  dark 
blue  eyes,  "you  are  here — you  are  safe! — blessed  be  the  saints 
and  Our  Lady — for  I  had  a  dream  in  the  night  that  startled 
and  appalled  me." 

"And  my  dreams  were  all  blithe  and  golden,"  said  Anne. 
"What  was  thine?" 

"Methought  you  were  asleep  and  in  this  chamber,  and  I  not 
by  your  side,  but  watching  you,  at  a  little  distance;  and,  lo! 
a  horrible  serpent  glided  from  yon  recess,  and,  crawling  to  your 
pillow,  I  heard  its  hiss,  and  strove  to  come  to  your  aid,  but  in 
vain ;  a  spell  seemed  to  chain  my  limbs.  At  last  I  found 
voice — I  cried  aloud — I  woke ;  and  mock  me  not,  but  I  surely 
heard  a  parting  footstep,  and  the  low  grating  of  some  sliding 
door." 

"It  was  the  dream's  influence,  enduring  beyond  the  dream. 
I  have  often  felt  it  so — nay,  even  last  night;  for  I,  too,  dreamt 
of  another,  dreamt  that  I  stood  by  the  altar  with  one  far  away, 
and  when  I  woke — for  I  woke  also — it  was  long  before  I  could 
believe  it  was  thy  hand  I  held,  and  thine  arm  that  embraced 
me." 

The  young  friends  rose,  and  their  coilet  was  scarcely  ended, 
when  again  appeared  in  the  chamber  all  the  stateliness  of  retinue 
allotted  to  the  Lady  Anne.  Sibyll  turned  to  depart.  "And 
whither  go  you?"  asked  Anne. 

"To  visit  my  father;  it  is  my  first  task  on  rising,"  returned 
Sibyll,  in  a  whisper. 

"You  must  let  me  visit  him,  too,  at  a  later  hour.  Find  me 
here  an  hour  before  noon,  Sibyll." 

The  early  morning  was  passed  by  Anne  in  the  Queen's  com- 
pany. The  refection,  the  embroidery  frame,  the  closheys, 
filled  up  the  hours.  The  Duchess  of  Clarence  had  left  the 
palace  with  her  lord  to  visit  the  King's  mother  at  Bay- 
nard's  Castle;  and  Anne's  timid  spirits  were  saddened  by  the 
strangeness  of  the  faces  round  her,  and  Elizabeth's  habitual 
silence.  There  was  something  in  the  weak  and  ill-fated  Queen 
that  ever  failed  to  conciliate  friends.  Though  perpetually 
striving  to  form  and  create  a  party,  she  never  succeeded  in 
gaining  confidence  or  respect.  And  no  one  raised  so  high  was 
ever  left  so  friendless  as  Elizabeth,  when,  in  her  awful  widow- 


360  THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

hood,  her  dowry  home  became  the  sanctuary.  All  her  power 
was  but  the  shadow  of  her  husband's  royal  sun,  and  vanished 
when  the  orb  prematurely  set;  yet  she  had  all  gifts  of  person 
in  her  favor,  and  a  sleek  smoothness  of  manner  that  seemed  to 
the  superficial  formed  to  win ;  but  the  voice  was  artificial,  and 
the  eye  cold  and  stealthy.  About  her  formal  precision  there 
was  an  eternal  consciousness  of  self — a  breathing  egotism. 
Her  laugh  was  displeasing — cynical,  not  mirthful ;  she  had 
none  of  that  forgetfulness  of  self,  that  warmth  when  gay,  that 
earnestness  when  sad,  which  create  sympathy.  Her  beauty 
was  without  loveliness,  her  character  without  charm;  every 
proportion  in  her  form  might  allure  the  sensualist;  but  there 
stopped  the  fascination.  The  mind  was  trivial,  though  cun- 
ning and  dissimulating;  and  the  very  evenness  of  her  temper 
seemed  but  the  clockwork  of  a  heart  insensible  to  its  own 
movements.  Vain  in  prosperity,  what  wonder  that  she  was  so 
abject  in  misfortune.  What  wonder  that  even  while,  in  later 
and  gloomier  years,*  accusing  Richard  III.  of  the  murder  of  her 
royal  sons,  and  knowing  him,  at  least,  the  executioner  of  her 
brother,  and  her  child  by  the  bridegroom  of  her  youth,f  she 
consented  to  send  her  daughters  to  his  custody,  though  sub- 
jected to  the  stain  of  illegitimacy,  and  herself  only  recognized 
as  the  harlot? 

The  King,  meanwhile,  had  ridden  out  betimes  alone,  and 
no  other  of  the  male  sex  presumed  in  his  absence  to  invade  the 
female  circle.  It  was  with  all  a  girl's  fresh  delight  that  Anne 
escaped  at  last  to  her  own  chamber,  where  she  found  Sibyll, 
and,  with  her  guidance,  she  threaded  the  gloomy  mazes  of  the 
Tower.  "Let  me  see,"  she  whispered,  "before  we  visit  your 
father — let  me  see  the  turret  in  which  the  unhappy  Henry  is 
confined." 

And  Sibyll  led  her  through  the  arch  of  that  tower,  now 
called  The  Bloody,  and  showed  her  the  narrow  casement  deep 
sunk  in  the  mighty  wall,  without  which  hung  the  starling  in 
the  cage,  basking  its  plumes  in  the  wintry  sun.  Anne  gazed 
with  that  deep  interest  and  tender  reverence  which  the  parent 
of  the  man  she  loves  naturally  excites  in  a  woman ;  and  while 
thus  standing  sorrowful  and  silent,  the  casement  was  unbarred, 
and  she  saw  the  mild  face  of  the  human  captive;  he  seemed  to 
talk  to  the  bird,  which,  in  shrill  tones  and  with  clapping  wings, 
answered  his  address.  At  that  time  a  horn  sounded  at  a  little 

*  Grafton,  806. 

t  Anthony,  Lord  Rivers,  and  Lord  Richard  Gray.  Not  the  least  instance  of  the  frivolity 
of  Elizabeth's  mind,  is  to  be  found  in  her  willingness,  after  all  the  woes  of  her  second 
widowhood,  and  when  she  was  not  very  far  short  of  sixty  years  old,  to  take  a  third  hus- 
band, James  III.  of  Scotland — a  marriage  prevented  only  by  the  death  of  the  Scotch  King. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  361 

distance  off;  a  clangor  of  arms,  as  the  sentries  saluted,  was 
heard;  the  demoiselles  retreated  through  the  arch,  and 
mounted  the  stair  conducting  to  the  very  room,  then  occupied, 
in  which  tradition  records  the  murder  of  the  Third  Richard's 
nephews;  and  scarcely  had  they  gained  this  retreat,  ere  to- 
wards the  Bloody  Gate,  and  before  the  prison  tower,  rode  the 
King  who  had  mounted  the  captive's  throne.  His  steed, 
gaudy  with  its  housings ;  his  splendid  dress ;  the  knights  and 
squires  who  started  forward  from  every  corner  to  hold  his 
gilded  stirrup;  his  vigorous  youth,  so  blooming  and  so  radiant — 
all  contrasted,  with  oppressive  force,  the  careworn  face  that 
watched  him  meekly  through  the  little  casement  of  the  Wake- 
field  Tower.  Edward's  large  quick  blue  eye  caught  sudden 
sight  of  the  once  familiar  features.  He  looked  up  steadily, 
and  his  gaze  encountered  the  fallen  king's.  He  changed  coun- 
tenance ;  but  with  the  external  chivalry  that  made  the  surface 
of  his  hollow  though  brilliant  character,  he  bowed  low  to  his 
saddle-bow  as  he  saw  his  captive,  and  removed  the  plumed  cap 
from  his  high  brow. 

Henry  smiled  sadly,  and  shook  his  reverend  head,  as  if  gently 
to  rebuke  the  mockery ;  then  he  closed  the  casement,  and  Ed- 
ward rode  into  the  yard. 

"How  can  the  King  hold  here  a  court,  and  here  a  prison? 
Oh,  hard  heart!"  murmured  Anne,  as,  when  Edward  had  dis- 
appeared, the  damsels  bent  their  way  to  Adam's  chamber. 

"Would  the  Earl  Warwick  approve  thy  pity,  sweet  Lady 
Anne?"  asked  Sibyll. 

"My  father's  heart  is  too  generous  to  condemn  it,"  returned 
Anne,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes;  "How  often  in  the 
night's  galliard  shall  I  see  that  face!" 

The  turret  in  which  Warner's  room  was  placed  flanked  the 
wing  inhabited  by  the  royal  family  and  their  more  distin- 
guished guests  (viz.,  the  palace,  properly  speaking,  as  distinct 
from  the  fortress),  and  communicated  with  the  regal  lodge  by 
a  long  corridor,  raised  above  cloisters,  and  open  to  a  court-yard. 
At  one  end  of  this  corridor  a  door  opened  upon  the  passage  in 
which  was  situated  the  chamber  of  the  Lady  Anne,  the  other 
extremity  communicated  with  a  rugged  stair  of  stone,  conduct- 
ing to  the  rooms  tenanted  by  Warner.  Leaving  Sibyll  to 
present  her  learned  father  to  the  gentle  Anne,  we  follow  the 
King  into  the  garden,  which  he  entered  on  dismounting.  He 
found  here  the  Archbishop  of  York,  who  had  come  to  the  palace 
in  his  barge,  and  with  but  a  slight  retinue,  and  who  was  now 
conversing  with  Hastings  in  earnest  whispers, 


362  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

The  King,  who  seemed  thoughtful  and  fatigued,  approached 
th  •  t\vo,  and  said,  with  a  forced  smile:  "What  learned  senten- 
tiary  engages  you  two  scholars?" 

"Your  Grace,"  said  the  Archbishop,  "Minerva was  not  pre- 
cisely the  goddess  most  potent  over  our  thoughts  at  that  mo- 
ment. I  received  a  letter  last  evening  from  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  and  as  I  know  the  love  borne  by  the  Prince  to  the 
Lord  Hastings,  I  inquired  of  your  chamberlain  how  far  he 
would  have  foreguessed  the  news  it  announced." 

"And  what  may  the  tidings  be?"  asked  Edward  absently. 

The  prelate  hesitated. 

"Sire,"  he  said  gravely,  "the  familiar  confidence  with 
which  both  your  Highness  and  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  distin- 
guish the  chamberlain,  permits  me  to  communicate  the  pur- 
port of  the  letter  in  his  presence.  The  young  Duke  informs 
me  that  he  hath  long  conceived  an  affection  which  he  would 
improve  into  marriage,  but  before  he  address  either  the  dem- 
oiselle or  her  father,  he  prays  me  to  confer  with  your  Grace, 
whose  pleasure  in  this,  as  all  things,  will  be  his  sovereign  law." 

"Ah,  Richard  loves  me  with  a  truer  love  than  George  of 
Clarence!  But  whom  can  he  have  seen  on  the  Borders  worthy 
to  be  a  prince's  bride?" 

"It  is  no  sudden  passion,  sire,  as  I  before  hinted;  nay,  it  has 
been  for  some  time  sufficiently  notorious  to  his  friends,  and 
many  of  the  court — it  is  an  affection  for  a  maiden  known  to 
him  in  childhood,  connected  to  him  by  blood — my  niece,  Anne 
Nevile!" 

As  if  stung  by  a  scorpion,  Edward  threw  off  the  prelate's 
arm,  on  which  he  had  been  leaning  with  his  usual  caressing 
courtesy. 

"This  is  too  much!"  said  he  quickly,  and  his  face,  before 
somewhat  pale,  grew  highly  flushed.  "Is  the  whole  royalty  of 
England  to  be  one  Nevile?  Have  I  not  sufficiently  narrowed 
the  basis  of  my  throne?  Instead  of  mating  my  daughter  to  a 
foreign  power — to  Spain  or  to  Bretagne — she  is  betrothed  to 
young  Montagu !  Clarence  weds  Isabel,  and  now  Gloucester — 
no,  prelate,  I  will  not  consent!" 

The  Archbishop  was  so  little  prepared  for  this  burst,  that  he 
remained  speechless;  Hastings  pressed  the  King's  arm,  as  if 
to  caution  him  against  so  imprudent  a  display  of  resentment. 
But  the  King  walked  on,  not  heeding  him,  and  in  great  distur- 
bance. Hastings  interchanged  looks  with  the  Archbishop; 
and  followed  his  royal  master. 

'  My  King,"  he  said,  in  an  earnest  whisper,  "whatever  you 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  363 

decide,  do  not  again  provoke  unhappy  feuds  laid  at  rest!  Al- 
ready this  morning  I  sought  your  chamber,  but  you  were 
abroad,  to  say  that  I  have  received  intelligence  of  a  fresh  rising 
of  the  Lancastrians  in  Lincolnshire,  under  Sir  Robert  Welles, 
and  the  warlike  knight  of  Scrivelsby,  Sir  Thomas  Dymoke. 
This  is  not  yet  an  hour  to  anger  the  pride  of  the  Neviles." 

"Oh,  Hastings!  Hastings!"  said  the  King,  in  a  tone  of  pas- 
sionate emotion,  "there  are  moments  when  the  human  heart 
cannot  dissemble!  Howbeit,  your  advice  is  wise  and  honest! 
No!  we  must  not  anger  the  Neviles!" 

He  turned  abruptly ;  rejoined  the  Archbishop,  who  stood  on 
the  spot  on  which  the  King  had  left  him,  his  arms  folded  on 
his  breast,  his  face  calm  but  haughty. 

"My  most  worshipful  cousin,"  said  Edward,  "forgive  the 
well-known  heat  of  my  hasty  moods !  I  had  hoped  that  Rich- 
ard would,  by  a  foreign  alliance,  have  repaired  the  occasion  of 
confirming  my  dynasty  abroad,  which  Clarence  lost.  But,  no 
matter!  Of  these  things  we  will  speak  anon.  Say  nought  to 
Richard  till  time  ripens  maturer  resolutions:  he  is  a  youth  yet. 
What  strange  tidings  are  these  from  Lincolnshire?" 

"The  house  of  your  purveyor,  Sir  Robert  de  Burgh,  is 
burned — his  lands  wasted.  The  rebels  are  headed  by  lords 
and  knights.  Robin  of  Redesdale,  who,  methinks,  bears  a 
charmed  life,  has  even  ventured  to  rouse  the  disaffected  in  my 
brother's  very  shire  of  Warwick." 

"Oh,  Henry!"  exclaimed  the  King,  casting  his  eyes  towards 
the  turret  that  held  his  captive,  "well  mightest  thou  call  a 
crown,  'a  wreath  of  thorns'!" 

"I  have  already,"  said  the  Archbishop,  "despatched  cou- 
riers to  my  brother,  to  recall  him  from  Warwick,  whither  he 
went  on  quitting  your  Highness.  I  have  done  more — 
prompted  by  a  zeal  that  draws  me  from  the  care  of  the  Church 
to  that  of  the  State,  I  have  summoned  the  Lords  St.  John, 
De  Fulke,  and  others,  to  my  house  of  the  More — praying  your 
Highness  to  deign  to  meet  them,  and  well  sure  that  a  smile 
from  your  princely  lips  will  regain  their  hearts  and  confirm 
their  allegiance,  at  a  moment  when  new  perils  require  all 
strong  arms." 

' '  You  have  done  most  wisely ;  I  will  come  to  your  palace — 
appoint  your  own  day." 

"It  will  take  some  days  for  the  barons  to  arrive  from  their 
castles.  I  fear  not  ere  the  tenth  day  from  this." 

"Ah!"  said  the  King,  with  a  vivacity  that  surprised  his  lis- 
teners, aware  of  his  usual  impetuous  energy,  "the  delay  will 


364  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

but  befriend  us;  as  for  Warwick,  permit  me  to  alter  your  ar- 
rangements; let  him  employ  the  interval,  not  in  London,  where 
he  is  useless,  but  in  raising  men  in  the  neighborhood  of  his 
castle,  and  in  defeating  the  treason  of  this  Redesdale  knave. 
We  will  give  commission  to  him,  and  to  Clarence,  to  levy 
troops;  Hastings,  see  to  this  forthwith.  Ye  say  Sir  Robert 
Welles  leads  the  Lincolnshire  varlets;  I  know  the  nature  of  his 
father,  the  Lord  Welles — a  fearful  and  timorous  one;  I  will 
send  for  him,  and  the  father's  head  shall  answer  for  the  son's 
faith.  Pardon  me,  dear  cousin,  that  I  leave  you  to  attend  these 
matters^  Prithee  visit  our  Queen,  meanwhile  she  holds  you 
our  guest." 

"Nay,  your  Highness  must  vouchsafe  my  excuse;  I  also 
have  your  royal  interests  too  much  at  heart  to  while  an  hour  in 
my  pleasurement.  I  will  but  see  the  friends  of  our  house,  now 
in  London,  and  then  back  to  the  More  and  collect  the  force  of 
my  tenants  and  retainers." 

"Ever  right;  fair  speed  to  you — cardinal  that  shall  be! 
Your  arm,  Hastings." 

The  King  and  his  favorite  took  their  way  into  the  state 
chambers. 

"Abet  not  Gloucester  in  this  alliance — abet  him  not!"  said 
the  King  solemnly. 

"Pause,  sire!  This  alliance  gives  to  Warwick  a  wise  coun- 
sellor instead  of  the  restless  Duke  of  Clarence.  Reflect  what 
danger  may  ensue  if  an  ambitious  lord,  discontented  with  your 
reign,  obtains  the  hand  of  the  great  Earl's  coheiress,  and  the 
half  of  a  hundred  baronies  that  command  an  army  larger  than 
the  Crown's." 

Though  these  reasonings  at  a  calmer  time  might  well  have  had 
their  effect  on  Edward,  at  that  moment  they  were  little  heeded 
by  his  passions.  He  stamped  his  foot  violently  on  the  floor. 
"Hastings!"  he  exclaimed,  "be  silent!  or--"  He  stopped 
short — mastered  his  emotion:  "Go,  assemble  our  privy  coun- 
cil. We  have  graver  matters  than  a  boy's  marriage  now  to 
think  of." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Edward  sought  to  absorb  the  fire  of  his 
nature  in  state  affairs,  in  all  needful  provisions  against  the  im- 
pending perils,  in  schemes  of  war  and  vengeance.  The  fatal 
frenzy  that  had  seized  him  haunted  him  everywhere,  by  day 
and  by  night.  For  some  days  after  the  unsuspected  visit 
which  he  had  so  criminally  stolen  to  his  guest's  chamber,  some- 
thing of  knightly  honor,  of  religious  scruple,  of  common  rea- 
son— awakened  in  him  the  more  by  the  dangers  which  had 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  365 

sprung  up,  and  which  the  Neviles  were  now  actively  employed 
in  defeating — struggled  against  his  guilty  desire,  and  roused 
his  conscience  to  a  less  feeble  resistance  than  it  usually  dis- 
played when  opposed  to  passion ;  but  the  society  of  Anne,  into 
which  he  was  necessarily  thrown  so  many  hours  in  the  day, 
and  those  hours  chiefly  after  the  indulgences  of  the  banquet, 
was  more  powerful  than  all  the  dictates  of  a  virtue  so  seldom 
exercised  as  to  have  none  of  the  strength  of  habit.  And  as 
the  time  drew  near  when  he  must  visit  the  Archbishop, 
head  his  army  against  the  rebels  (whose  force  daily  in- 
creased, despite  the  captivity  of  Lord  Welles  and  Sir  Thomas 
Dymoke,  who,  on  the  summons  of  the  King,  had  first  taken 
sanctuary  and  then  yielded  their  persons  on  the  promise 
of  pardon  and  safety),  and  restore  Anne  to  her  mother — 
as  this  time  drew  near,  his  perturbation  of  mind  became 
visible  to  the  whole  court ;  but  with  the  instinct  of  his  native 
craft,  he  contrived  to  conceal  its  cause.  For  the  first  time  in 
his  life  he  had  no  confidant;  he  did  not  dare  trust  his  secret  to 
Hastings.  His  heart  gnawed  itself.  Neither,  though  con- 
stantly stealing  to  Anne's  side,  could  he  venture  upon  lan- 
guage that  might  startle  and  enlighten  her.  He  felt  that  even 
those  attentions,  which  on  the  first  evening  of  her  arrival  had 
been  noticed  by  the  courtiers,  could  not  be  safely  renewed. 
He  was  grave  and  constrained,  even  when  by  her  side,  and  the 
etiquette  of  the  court  allowed  him  no  opportunity  for  unwit- 
nessed conference.  In  this  suppressed  and  unequal  struggle 
with  himself  the  time  passed,  till  it  was  now  but  the  day  before 
that  fixed  for  his  visit  to  the  More.  And,  as  he  rose  at  morn- 
ing from  his  restless  couch,  the  struggle  was  over,  and  the  soul 
resolved  to  dare  the  crime.  His  first  thought  was  to  separate 
Anne  from  Sibyll.  He  affected  to  rebuke  the  Queen  for  giv- 
ing to  his  high-born  guest  an  associate  below  her  dignity,  and 
on  whose  character,  poor  girl,  rested  the  imputation  of  witch- 
craft; and  when  the  Queen  replied  that  Lady  Anne  herself 
had  so  chosen,  he  hit  upon  the  expedient  of  visiting  Warner 
himself,  under  pretence  of  inspecting  his  progress ;  affected  to 
be  struck  by  the  sickly  appearance  of  the  sage,  and  sending  for 
Sibyll,  told  her,  with  an  air  of  gracious  consideration,  that  her 
first  duty  was  to  attend  her  parent,  that  the  Queen  released  her 
for  some  days  from  all  court  duties,  and  that  he  had  given  or- 
ders to  prepare  the  room  adjoining  Master  Warner's,  and  held 
by  Friar  Bungey,  till  that  worthy  had  retired  with  his  patron- 
ess from  the  court,  to  which  she  would  for  the  present  remove. 
Sibyll,  wondering  at  this  novel  mark  of  consideration  in  the 


3^>6  THF.    LAST    OF    THK    I!  .\RONS. 

careless  King,  yet  imputing  it  to  the  high  value  set  on  her 
father's  labors,  thanked  Edward  with  simple  earnestness,  and 
withdrew.  In  the  ante-room  she  encountered  Hastings,  on  his 
way  to  the  King.  He  started  in  surprise,  and  with  a  jeal- 
ous pang:  "What  thou,  Sibyll!  and  from  the  King's  closet! 
What  led  thee  hither?" 

"His  Grace's  command."  And  too  noble  for  the  pleasure 
of  exciting  the  distrust  that  delights  frivolous  minds  as  the 
proof  of  power,  Sibyll  added:  "The  King  has  been  kindly 
speaking  to  me  of  my  father's  health."  The  courtier's  bro:" 
cleared;  he  mused  a  moment,  and  said,  in  a  whisper:  "I  be- 
seech thee  to  meet  me  an  hour  hence  at  the  eastern  rampart." 

Since  the  return  of  Lord  Hastings  to  the  palace  there  had 
been  an  estrangement  and  distance  in  his  manner,  ill  suiting 
one  who  enjoyed  the  rights  of  an  accepted  suitor,  and  wound- 
ing alike  to  Sibyll's  affection  and  her  pride;  but  her  confi- 
dence in  his  love  and  truth  was  entire.  Her  admiration  for 
him  partook  of  worship,  and  she  steadily  sought  to  reason  away 
any  causes  for  alarm  by  recalling  the  state  cares  which  pressed 
heavily  upon  him,  and  whispering  to  herself  that  word  of 
"wife,"  which,  coming  in  passionate  music  from  those  beloved 
lips,  had  thrown  a  mist  over  the  present,  a  glory  over  the  future ; 
and  in  the  King's  retention  of  Adam  Warner,  despite  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford's  strenuous  desire  to  carry  him  off  with 
Friar  Bungey,  and  restore  him  to  his  tasks  of  alchemist  and 
multiplier,  as  well  as  in  her  own  promotion  to  the  Queen's  ser- 
vice, Sibyll  could  not  but  recognize  the  influence  of  her  power- 
ful lover.  His  tones  now  were  tender,  though  grave  and  ear- 
nest. Surely,  in  the  meeting  he  asked,  all  not  comprehended 
would  be  explained.  And  so,  with  a  light  heart, she  passed  on. 

Hastings  sighed  as  his  eye  followed  her  from  the  room,  and 
thus  said  he  to  himself:  "Were  I  the  obscure  gentleman  I  once 
was,  how  sweet  a  lot  would  that  girl's  love  choose  to  me  from 
the  urn  of  fate!  But,  oh!  when  we  taste  of  power  and  great- 
ness, and  master  the  world's  dark  wisdom,  what  doth  love 
shrink  to? — an  hour's  bliss,  and  a  life's  folly."  His  delicate 
lip  curled,  and  breaking  from  his  soliloquy,  he  entered  the 
King's  closet.  Edward  was  resting  his  face  upon  the  palms  of 
his  hands,  and  his  bright  eyes  dwelt  upon  vacant  space,  till 
they  kindled  into  animation  as  they  lighted  on  his  favorite. 

"  Dear  Will, "  said  the  King,  "knowest  thou  that  men  say 
thou  art  bewitched?" 

"Beau  sire,  often  have  men,  when  a  sweet  face  hath  cap« 
tured  thy  great  heart,  said  the  same  of  thee!  " 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    DARONS.  367 

"It  may  be  so,  with  truth,  for,  verily,  love  is  the  arch-devil's 
birth." 

The  King  rose,  and  strode  his  chamber  with  a  quick  step; 
at  last,  pausing: 

"Hastings,"  he  said,  "so  thou  lovest  the  multiplier's  pretty 
daughter.  She  hath  just  left  me.  Art  thou  jealous?" 

"Happily,  your  Highness  sees  no  beauty  in  locks  that  have 
the  gloss  of  the  raven,  and  eyes  that  have  the  hue  of  the 
violet." 

"No,  I  am  a  constant  man — constant  to  one  ideal  of  beauty 
in  a  thousand  forms — eyes  like  the  summer's  light-blue  sky 
and  locks  like  its  golden  sunbeams!  But  to  set  thy  mind  at 
rest.  Will,  know  that  I  have  but  compassionated  the  sickly 
state  of  the  scholar,  whom  thou  prizest  so  highly ;  and  I  have 
placed  thy  fair  Sibyll's  chamber  near  her  father's.  Young 
Lovell  says  thou  art  bent  on  wedding  the  wizard's  daughter." 

"And  if  I  were,  beau  sire?" 

Edward  looked  grave. 

"If  thou  wert,  my  poor  Will,  thou  wouldst  lose  all  the  fame 
for  shrewd  wisdom  which  justifies  thy  sudden  fortunes.  No — 
no — thou  art  the  flower  and  prince  of  my  new  seignorie — thou 
must  mate  thyself  with  a  name  and  a  barony  that  shall  be 
worthy  thy  fame  and  thy  prospects.  Love  beauty,  but  marry 
power,  Will.  In  vain  would  thy  King  draw  thee  up,  if  a 
despised  wife  draw  thee  down!" 

Hastings  listened  with  profound  attention  to  these  words. 
The  King  did  not  wait  for  his  answer,  but  added  laughingly: 

"It  is  thine  own  fault,  crafty  gallant,  if  thou  dost  not  end 
all  her  spells." 

"What  ends  the  spells  of  youth  and  beauty,  beau  sire?" 

"Possession!"  replied  the  King,  in  a  hollow  and  muttered 
voice. 

Hastings  was  about  to  answer,  when  the  door  opened,  and 
the  officer  in  waiting  announced  the  Duke  of  Clarence. 

"Ha!"  said  Edward,  "George  comes,  to  importune  me  for 
leave  to  depart  to  the  government  of  Ireland,  and  I  have  to 
make  him  weet  that  I  think  my  Lord  Worcester  a  safer  viceroy 
of  the  two!" 

"Your  Highness  will  pardon  me;  but,  though  I  deemed  you 
too  generous  in  the  appointment, -it  were  dangerous  now  to 
annul  it." 

"More  dangerous  to  confirm  it.  Elizabeth  has  caused  me  to 
see  the  folly  of  a  grant  made  over  the  malmsey — a  wine,  by  the 
way,  in  which  poor  George  swears  he  would  be  content  to 


368  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BAROMS. 

drown  himself.  Viceroy  of  Ireland!  My  father  had  that  gov- 
ernment, and  once  tasting  the  sweets  of  royalty,  ceased  to  be  a 
subject!  No,  no,  Clarence — " 

"Can  never  meditate  treason  against  a  brother's  crown. 
Has  he  the  wit,  or  the  energy,  or  the  genius,  for  so  desperate 
an  ambition?" 

"No;  but  he  hath  the  vanity.  And  I  will  wager  thee  a  thous- 
and marks  to  a  silver  penny  that  my  jester  shall  talk  giddy 
Georgie  into  advancing  a  claim  to  be  soldan  of  Egypt,  or  pope 
of  Rome ! ' ' 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    FOSTER-BROTHERS. 

SIR  MARMADUKE  NEVILE  was  sunning  his  bravery  in  the 
Tower  Green,  amidst  the  other  idlers  of  the  court,  proud  of 
the  gold  chain  and  the  gold  spurs  which  attested  his  new  rank, 
and  not  grieved  to  have  exchanged  the  solemn  walls  of  Middle- 
ham  for  the  gay  delights  of  the  voluptuous  palace,  when,  to  his 
pleasure  and  surprise,  he  perceived  his  foster-brother  enter  the 
gateway  ;  and  no  sooner  had  Nicholas  entered,  than  a  bevy  of 
the  younger  courtiers  hastened  eagerly  towards  him. 

"  Gramercy ! "  quoth  Sir  Marmaduke.  to  one  of  the  by- 
standers, "  what  hath  chanced  to  make  Nick  Alwyn  a  man  of 
such  note,  that  so  many  .vings  of  satin  and  pile  should  flutter 
round  him,  like  sparrows  round  an  owl,  which,  by  the  Holy 
Rood,  his  wise  face  somewhat  resembleth." 

"  Know  you  not  that  Master  Alwyn,  since  he  hath  com- 
menced trade  for  himself,  hath  acquired  already  the  repute 
of  the  couthliest  goldsmith  in  London  ?  No  dague-hilts,  no 
buckles  are  to  be  worn,  save  those  that  he  fashions  ;  and — an" 
he  live,  and  the  House  of  York  prosper— ^-verily,  Master  Alwyn, 
the  goldsmith,  will,  ere  long,  be  the  richest  and  best  man  from 
Mile-end  to  the  Sanctuary." 

"  Right  glad  am  I  to  hear  it,"  said  honest  Marmaduke 
heartily  ;  and  approaching  Alwyn,  he  startled  the  precise  trader 
by  a  friendly  slap  on  the  shoulder. 

"  What,  man,  art  thou  too  proud  to  remen.ber  Marmaduke 
Nevile  !  Come  to  my  lodgment,  yonder,  and  talk  of  old  days 
over  the  King's  canary." 

"  I  crave  your  pardon,  dear  Master  Nevile." 

"  Master — avaunt !  Sir  Marmaduke — knighted  by  the  hand 
of  Lord  Warwick,  Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile,  lord  of  a  manor  he 
hath  never  yet  seen — sober  Alwyn." 


THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS.  369 

Then  drawing  his  foster-brother's  arm  in  his,  Marmaduke  led 
him  to  the  chamber  in  which  he  lodged. 

The  young  men  spent  some  minutes  in  congratulating  each 
other  on  their  respective  advances  in  life  :  the  gentleman,  who 
had  attained  competence  and  station,  simply  by  devotion  to  a 
powerful  patron  ;  the  trader,  who  had  already  won  repute  and 
the  prospect  of  wealth,  by  ingenuity,  application,  and  toil ;  and 
yet,  to  do  justice,  as  much  virtue  went  to  Marmaduke's  loyalty 
to  Warwick,  as  to  Alvvyn's  capacities  for  making  a  fortune. 
Mutual  compliments  over,  Alwyn  said  hesitatingly  : 

"  And  dost  thou  find  Mistress  Sibyll  more  gently  disposed  to 
thee  than  when  thou  didst  complain  to  me  of  her  cruelty  ? " 

"  Marry,  good  Nicholas,  I  will  be  frank  with  thee.  When  I 
left  the  court  to  follow  Lord  Warwick,  there  were  rumors  of 
the  gallantries  of  Lord  Hastings  to  the  girl  which  grieved  me 
to  the  heart.  I  spoke  to  her  thereof  bluntly  and  honorably, 
and  got  but  high  looks  and  scornful  words  in  return.  Good 
fellow,  1  thank  thee  for  that  squeeze  of  the  hand  and  that  dole- 
ful sigh.  In  my  absence  at  Middleham,  I  strove  hard  to  forget 
one  who  cared  so  little  for  me.  My  dear  Alwyn,  those  York- 
shire lasses  are  parlously  comely,  and  mighty  douce  and  deb- 
onair. So  I  stormed  cruel  Sibyll  out  of  my  heart,  perforce  of 
numbers." 

"  And  thou  lovest  her  no  more?  " 

"Not  I,  by  this  goblet  !  On  coming  back,  it  is  true,  I  felt 
pleased  to  clank  my  gold  spurs  in  her  presence,  and  curious  to 
see  if  my  new  fortunes  would  bring  out  a  smile  of  approval  ; 
and  verily,  to  speak  sooth,  the  donzell  was  kind  and  friendly, 
and  spoke  to  me  so  cheerly  of  the  pleasures  she  felt  in  my 
advancement,  that  I  adventured  again  a  few  words  of  the  old 
folly.  But  my  lassie  drew  up  like  a  princess,  and  I  am  a  cured 
man." 

"  By  your  troth  ? " 

"  By  my  troth  !  " 

Alwyn's  head  sank  on  his  bosom,  in  silent  thought.  Sir 
Marmaduke  emptied  his  goblet ;  and  really  the  young  knight 
looked  so  fair  and  so  gallant,  in  his  new  surcoat  of  velvet,  that 
it  was  no  marvel  if  he  should  find  enough  food  for  consolation 
in  a  court  where  men  spent  six  hours  a  day  in  making  love — 
nor  in  vain. 

"  And  what  say  they  still  of  the  Lord  Hastings  ? "  asked 
Alwyn,  breaking  silence.  "Nothing,  I  trow  and  trust,  that 
arraigns  the  poor  lady's  honor — though  much  that  may  scoff 
at  her  simple  faith,  in  a  nature  so  vain  and  fickle.  '  The 


370  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

tongue's  not  steel,  yet  it  cuts,'  as  the  proverb  saith  of  the 
slanderer." 

"  No !  scandal  spares  her  virtue  as  woman,  to  run  down  her 
cunning  as  witch  !  They  say  that  Hastings  hath  not  prevailed, 
nor  sought  to  prevail — that  he  is  spellbound.  By  St.  Thomas, 
from  a  maid  of  such  character,  Marmaduke  Nevile  is  happily 
rescued  ! " 

"  Sir  Marmaduke,"  then  said  Alwyn,  in  a  grave  and  earnest 
voice,  "it  behoves  me,  as  true  friend,  though  humble,  and  as 
honest  man,  to  give  thee  my  secret,  in  return  for  thine  own. 
I  love  this  girl.  Ay,  ay  !  thou  thinkest  that  love  is  a  strange 
word  in  a  craftsman's  lips,  but  'cold  flint  hides  hot  fire.'  I 
would  not  have  been  thy  rival,  Heaven  forfend  !  hadst  thou 
still  cherished  a  hope — or  if  thou  now  wilt  forbid  my  aspiring ; 
but  if  thou  wilt  not  say  me  nay,  I  will  try  :TIV  chance  in  deliver- 
ing a  pure  soul  from  a  crafty  wooer." 

Marmaduke  stared  in  great  surprise  at  his  foster-brother; 
and  though,  no  doubt,  he  spoke  truth  when  he  said  he  was 
cured  of  his  love  for  Sibyll,  he  yet  felt  a  sort  of  jealousy  at 
Alwyn's  unexpected  confession,  and  his  vanity  was  hurt  at  the 
notion  that  the  plain-visaged  trader  should  attempt  where  the 
handsome  gentleman  had  failed.  However,  his  blunt,  generous, 
manly  nature,  after  a  brief  struggle,  got  the  better  of  these  sore 
feelings,  and  holding  out  his  hand  to  Alwyn,  he  said  :  "  My 
dear  foster-brother,  try  the  hazard  and  cast  thy  dice,  if  thou 
wilt.  Heaven  prosper  thee,  if  success  be  for  thine  own  good  ! 
But  if  she  be  really  given  to  witchcraft  (plague  on  thee,  man, 
sneer  not  at. the  word) — small  comfort  to  bed  and  hearth  can 
such  practices  bring  !  " 

"  Alas !  "  said  Alwyn,  "  the  witchcraft  is  on  the  side  of 
Hastings — the  witchcraft  of  fame  and  rank,  and  a  glozing 
tongue  and  experienced  art.  But  she  shall  not  fall,  if  a  true 
arm  can  save  her;  and  'though  Hope  be  a  small  child,  she  can 
carry  a  great  anchor  '  !  " 

These  words  were  said  so  earnestly,  that  they  opened  new 
light  into  Marmaduke's  mind,  and  his  native  generosity  stand- 
ing in  lieu  of  intellect,  he  comprehended  sympathetically  the 
noble  motives  which  actuated  the  son  of  commerce. 

"My  poor  Alwyn,"  he  said,  "if  thou  canst  save  this  young 
maid,  whom  by  my  troth  I  loved  well,  and  who  tells  me  yet 
that  she  loveth  me  as  a  sister  loves,  right  glad  shall  I  be.  But 
thou  stakest  thy  peace  of  mind  against  hers  :  fair  luck  to  thee, 
say  I  again  ;  and  if  thou  wilt  risk  thy  chance  at  once  (for  sus- 
pense is  love's  purgatory),  seize  the  moment.  I  saw  Sibyll, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  371 

just  ere  we   met,  pass  to  the   Ramparts,  alone  ;   at  this  sharp 
season,  the  place  is  deserted — go." 

"  I  will,  this  moment !  "  said  Alwyn,  rising  and  turning  very 
pale  ;  but  as  he  gained  the  door,  he  halted  :  "  I  had  forgot, 
Master  Nevile,  that  I  bring  the  King  his  signet  ring,  new  set, 
of  the  falcon  and  fetter-lock." 

"  They  will  keep  thee  three  hours  in  the  ante-room.  The 
Duke  of  Clarence  is  now  with  the  King.  Trust  the  ring  to  me, 
I  shall  see  His  Highness  ere  he  dines." 

Even  in  his  love,  Alwyn  had  the  Saxon's  considerations  of 
business ;  he  hesitated  :  "  May  I  not  endanger  thereby  the 
King's  favor  and  loss  of  custom  ?  "  said  the  trader. 

"Tush,  man!  little  thou  knowest  King  Edward;  he  cares 
nought  for  the  ceremonies  :  moreover,  the  Neviles  are  now  all- 
puissant  in  favor.  I  am  here  in  attendance  on  sweet  Lady 
Anne,  whom  the  King  loves  as  a  daughter,  though  too  young 
for  sire  to  so  well-grown  a  donzell  ;  and  a  word  from  her  lip 
if  need  be,  will  set  all  as  smooth  as  this  gorget  of  lawn  !  " 

Thus  assured,  Alwyn  gave  the  ring  to  his  friend,  and  took 
his  way  at  once  to  the  Ramparts.  Marmaduke  remained  behind 
to  finish  the  canary,  and  marvel  how  so  sober  a  man  should 
form  so  ardent  a  passion.  Nor  was  he  much  less  surprised  to 
remark  that  his  friend,  though  still  speaking  with  a  strong  pro- 
vincial accent,  and  still  sowing  his  discourse  with  rustic  saws 
and  proverbs,  had  risen  in  language  and  in  manner  with  the 
riseof  his  fortunes.  "An'hegoon  so,  and  become  lord  mayor," 
muttered  Marmaduke,  "  verily  he  will  half  look  like  a  gentle- 
man !  " 

To  these  meditations  the  young  knight  was  not  long  left  in 
peace.  A  messenger  from  Warwick  House  sought  and  found  him, 
with  the  news  that  the  Earl  was  on  his  road  to  London,  and  wished 
to  see  Sir  Marmaduke  the  moment  of  his  arrival,  which  was 
hourly  expected.  The  young  knight's  hardy  brain  somewhat 
flustered  by  the  canary,  Alwyn's  secret,  and  this  sudden  tidings, 
he  hastened  to  obey  his  chief's  summons,  and  forgot,  till  he 
gained  the  Earl's  mansion,  the  signet  ring  entrusted  to  him  by 
Alwyn.  "  What  matters  it  ?  "  said  he  then,  philosophically  ; 
"  the  King  hath  rings  eno'  on  his  fingers  not  to  miss  one  for  an 
hour  or  so,  and  I  dare  not  send  any  one  else  with  it.  Marry,  I 
must  plunge  mv  head  in  cold  water,  to  get  rid  of  the  fumes  of 
the  wine." 


37*  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE    LOVER    AND    THE    GALLANT — WOMAN'S   CHOICE. 

ALWYN  bent  his  way  to  the  Ramparts,  a  part  of  which  then 
resembled  the  boulevards  of  a  Fiench  town,  having  rows  of 
trees,  green  sward,  a  winding  walk,  and  seats  placed  at  frequent 
intervals,  for  the  repose  of  the  loungers.  During  the  summer 
evenings,  the  place  was  a  favorite  resort  of  the  court  idlers  ; 
but  now,  in  winter,  it  was  usually  deserted,  save  by  the  sentries, 
placed  at  distant  intervals.  The  trader  had  not  gone  far  in  his 
quest  when  he  perceived,  a  few  paces  before  him,  the  very  man 
he  had  most  cause  to  dread  :  and  Lord  Hastings,  hearing  the 
sound  of  a  footfall  amongst  the  crisp,  faded  leaves  that  strewed 
the  path,  turned  abruptly  as  Alwyn  approached  his  side. 

At  the  sight  of  his  formidable  rival,  Alwyn  had  formed  one 
of  those  resolutions  which  occur  only  to  men  of  his  decided, 
plain-spoken,  energetic  character.  His  distinguishing  shrewd- 
ness and  penetration  had  given  him  considerable  insight  into 
the  nobler  as  well  as  the  weaker  qualities  of  Hastings  ;  and  his 
hope  in  the  former  influenced  the  determination  to  which  he 
came.  The  reflections  of  Hastings  at  that  moment  were  of  a 
nature  to  augur  favorably  to  the  views  of  the  humbler  lover  ; 
for,  during  the  stirring  scenes  in  which  his  late  absence  from 
Sibyll  had  been  passed,  Hastings  had  somewhat  recovered  from 
her  influence  ;  and  feeling  the  difficulties  of  reconciling  his 
honor  and  his  worldly  prospects  to  further  prosecution  of  the 
love,  rashly  expressed  but  not  deeply  felt,  he  had  determined 
frankly  to  cut  the  Gordian  knot  he  could  not  solve,  and  inform 
Sibyll  that  marriage  between  them  was  impossible.  With  that 
view  he  had  appointed  this  meeting,  and  his  conference  with 
the  King  but  confirmed  his  intention. 

It  was  in  this  state  of  mind  that  he  was  thus  accosted  by 
Alwyn  : 

"  My  lord,  may  I  make  bold  to  ask,  for  a  few  moments,  your 
charitable  indulgence  to  words  you  may  deem  presumptuous." 

"  Be  brief,  then,  Master  Alwyn — I  am  waited  for." 

"  Alas,  my  lord  !  I  can  guess  by  whom — by  the  one  whom  I 
seek  myself — by  Sibyll  Warner?" 

"  How,  sir  goldsmith  !  "  said  Hastings  haughtily — "  what 
knowest  thou  of  my  movements,  and  what  care  I  for  thine  ?  " 

"  Hearken,  my  Lord  Hastings — hearken  !  "  said  Alwyn, 
repressing  his  resentment,  and  in  a  voice  so  earnest  that  it 
riveted  the  entire  attention  of  the  listener — "hearken  and  judge 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  373 

not  as  noble  judges  craftsman,  but  as  man  should  judge  man. 
As  the  saw  saith,  'We  all  lie  alike  in  our  graves.'  From  the 
first  moment  I  saw  this  Sibyll  Warner  I  loved  her.  Yes  ;  smile 
disdainfully,  but  listen  still.  She  was  obscure  and  in  distress. 
I  loved  her  not  for  her  fair  looks  alone — 1  loved  her  for  her 
good  gifts,  for  her  patient  industry,  for  her  filial  duty,  for  her 
struggles  to  give  bread  to  her  father's  board.  I  did  not  say  to 
myself  :  '  This  girl  will  make  a  comely  fere — a  delicate  para- 
mour ! '  I  said  :  '  This  good  daughter  will  make  a  wife  whom 
an  honest  man  may  take  to  his  heart  and  cherish.'"  Poor 
Alwyn  stopped,  with  tears  in  his  voice,  struggled  with  his  emo- 
tions, and  pursued  :  "  My  fortunes  were  more  promising  than 
hers ;  there  was  no  cause  why  I  might  not  hope.  True,  I  had 
a  rival  then  ;  young  as  myself — better  born — comelier  ;  but 
she  loved  him  not.  I  foresaw  that  his  love  for  her,  if  love  it 
were,  would  cease.  Methought  that  her  mind  would  under- 
stand mine ;  as  mine — verily  I  say  it— yearned  for  hers !  I 
could  not  look  on  the  maidens  of  mine  own  rank,  and  who  had 
lived  around  me,  but  what — Oh,  no,  my  lord,  again  I  say,  not 
the  beauty,  but  the  gifts,  the  mind,  the  heart  of  Sibyll,  threw 
them  all  into  the  shade.  You  may  think  it  strange  that  I — a 
plain,  steadfast,  trading,  working,  careful  man — should  have 
all  these  feelings  ;  but  I  will  tell  you  wherefore  such  as  I  some- 
times have  them,  nurse  them,  brood  on  them,  more  then  you 
lords  and  gentlemen,  with  all  your  graceful  arts  in  pleasing. 
We  know  no  light  loves  !  No  brief  distractions  to  the  one  arch 
passion  !  We  sober  sons  of  the  stall  and  the  ware  are  no  gen- 
eral gallants  ;  we  love  plainly,  we  love  but  once,  and  we  love 
heartily.  But  who  knows  not  the  proverb,  '  What's  a  gentle- 
man but  his  pleasure '  ?  And  what's  pleasure  but  change  ? 
When  Sibyll  came  to  the  palace,  I  soon  heard  her  name  linked 
with  yours  ;  I  saw  her  cheek  blush  when  you  spoke.  Well — 
well — well !  after  all,  as  the  old  wives  tell  us,  '  blushing  is 
virtue's  livery.'  I  said :  '  She  is  a  chaste  and  high-hearted 
girl.  This  will  pass,  and  the  time  will  come  when  she  can 
compare  your  love  and  mine.'  Now,  my  lord,  the  time  has 
come — I  know  that  you  seek  her.  Yea,  at  this  moment,  I  know 
that  her  heart  beats  for  your  footstep.  Say  but  one  word — say 
that  you  love  Sibyll  Warner  with  the  thought  of  wedding  her — 
say  that,  on  your  honor,  noble  Hastings,  as  gentleman  and 
peer,  and  I  will  kneel  at  your  feet,  and  beg  your  pardon  for 
my  vain  follies,  and  go  back  to  my  ware,  and  work,  and  not 
repine.  Say  it !  You  are  silent !  Then  I  implore  you,  still 
as  peer  and  gentleman,  to  let  the  honest  love  save  the  maiden 


374  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

from  the  wooing  that  will  blight  her  peace  and  blast  her  name! 
And  now,  Lord  Hastings,  I  wait  your  gracious  answer." 

The  sensations  experienced  by  Hastings,  as  Alvvyn  thus  con- 
cluded, were  maniform  and  complicated ;  but  at  the  first, 
admiration  and  pity  were  the  strongest. 

"  My  poor  friend,"  said  he  kindly,  "if  you  thus  love  a 
demoiselle  deserving  all  my  reverence,  your  words  and  your 
thoughts  bespeak  you  no  unworthy  pretender  ;  but  take  my 
counsel,  good  Alwyn.  Come  not — thou  from  the  Chepe — come 
not  to  the  court  for  a  wife.  Forget  this  fantasy." 

"  My  lord,  it  is  impossible  !  Forget,  I  cannot — regret  I 
may." 

"  Thou  canst  not  succeed,  man,"  resumed  the  nobleman 
more  coldly,  "  nor  couldst  if  William  Hastings  had  never 
lived.  The  eyes  of  women  accustomed  to  gaze  on  the  gor- 
geous externals  of  the  world,  are  blinded  to  plain  worth  like 
thine.  It  might  have  been  different  had  the  donzell  never 
abided  in  a  palace  ;  but,  as  it  is,  brave  fellow,  learn  how  these 
wounds  of  the  heart  scar  over,  and  the  spot  becomes  hard  and 
callous  evermore.  What  art  thou,  Master  Nicholas  Alwyn 
(continued  Hastings  gloomily,  and  with  a  withering  smile), 
what  art  thou,  to  ask  for  a  bliss  denied  to  me — to  all  of  us — 
the  bliss  of  carrying  poetry  into  life — youth  into  manhood,  by 
winning — the  FIRST  LOVED?  But  think  not,  sir  lover,  that  I 
say  this  in  jealousy  or  disparagement.  Look  yonder,  by  the 
leafless  elm,  the  white  robe  of  Sibyll  Warner.  Go,  and  plead 
thy  suit." 

"  Do  I  understand  you,  my  lord  ? "  said  Alwyn,  somewhat 
confused  and  perplexed  by  the  tone  and  the  manner  Hastings 
adopted.  "  Does  report  err,  and  you  do  not  love  this  maiden  ? " 

"  Fair  master,"  returned  Hastings  scornfully,  "  thou  has  no 
right  that  I  trow  of  to  pry  into  my  thoughts  and  secrets  ;  I 
cannot  acknowledge  my  judge  in  thee,  good  jeweller  and  gold- 
smith— enough,  surely,  in  all  courtesy,  that  I  yield  thee  the 
precedence.  Tell  thy  tale,  as  movingly,  if  thou  wilt,  as  thou 
has  told  it  to  me  ;  say  of  me  all  that  thou  fanciest  thou  hast 
reason  to  suspect  ;  and  if,  Master  Alvvyn,  thou  woo  and  win 
the  lady,  fail  not  to  ask  me  to  thy  wedding  !  " 

There  was  in  this  speech,  and  the  bearing  of  the  speaker, 
that  superb  levity,  that  inexpressible  and  conscious  superiority, 
that  cold,  ironical  tranquillity,  which  awe  and  humble  men 
more  than  grave  disdain  or  imperious  passion.  Alwyn  ground 
his  teeth  as  he  listened,  and  gazed  in  silent  despair  and  rage 
upon  the  calm  lord.  Neither  of  these  men  could  strictly  be 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  375 

called  handsome.  Of  the  two,  Alwyn  had  the  advantage  of 
more  youthful  prime,  of  a  taller  stature,  of  a  more  powerful, 
though  less  supple  and  graceful,  frame.  In  their  very  dress 
there  was  little  of  that  marked  distinction  between  classes 
which  then  usually  prevailed,  for  the  dark  cloth  tunic  and  sur- 
coat  of  Hastings  made  a  costume  even  simpler  than  the  brigKt- 
colored  garb  of  the  trader,  with  its  broad  trimmings  of  fur, 
and  its  aiglettes  of  elaborate  lace.  Between  man  and  man, 
then,  where  was  the  visible,  the  mighty,  the  insurmountable 
difference  in  all  that  can  charm  the  fancy  and  captivate  the 
eye,  which,  as  he  gazed,  Alwyn  confessed  to  himself  there 
existed  between  the  two  ?  Alas  !  how  the  distinctions  least 
to  be  analyzed  are  ever  the  sternest  !  What  lofty  ease  in 
that  high-bred  air :  What  histories  of  triumph  seemed  to 
speak  in  that  quiet  eye,  sleeping  in  its  own  imperious  lustre : 
What  magic  of  command  in  that  pale  brow :  What  spells  of 
persuasion  in  that  artful  lip !  Alwyn  muttered  to  himself, 
bowed  his  head  involuntarily,  and  passed  on  at  once  from ' 
Hastings  to  Sibyll,  who,  now,  at  the  distance  of  some  yards, 
had  arrested  her  steps,  in  surprise  to  see  the  conference 
between  the  nobleman  and  the  burgher. 

But  as  he  approached  Sibyll,  poor  Alwyn  felt  all  the  firm- 
ness and  courage  he  had  exhibited  with  Hastings,  melt  away. 
And  the  trepidation  which  a  fearful  but  deep  affection  ever 
occasions  in  men  of  his  character  made  his  movements  more 
than  usually  constrained  and  awkward,  as  he  cowered  beneath 
the  looks  of  the  maid  he  so  truly  loved. 

"  Seekest  thou  me,  Master  Alwyn  ?  "  asked  Sibyll  gently, 
seeing  that,  though  he  paused  by  her  side,  he  spoke  not. 

"  I  do,"  returned  Alwyn  abruptly,  and  again   he  was  silent. 

At  length,  lifting  his  eyes,  and  looking  round  him,  he  saw- 
Hastings  at  the  distance,  leaning  against  the  rampart,  with 
folded  arms,  and  the  contrast  of  his  rival's  cold  and  arrogant 
indifference,  and  his  own  burning  veins  and  bleeding  heart, 
roused  up  his  manly  spirit,  and  gave  to  his  tongue  the  elo- 
quence which  emotion  gains  when  it  once  breaks  the  fetters  it 
forges  for  itself. 

"  Look,  look,  Sibyll  !  "  he  said,  pointing  to  Hastings — "look! 
that  man  you  believe  loves  you  :  If  so — if  he  loved  thee,  would 
he  stand  yonder — mark  him — aloof,  contemptuous,  careless — 
while  he  knew  that  I  was  by  your  side  !  " 

Sibyll  turned  upon  the  goldsmith  eyes  full  of  innocent  sur- 
prise— eyes  that  asked,  plainly  as  eyes  could  speak ;  "  And 
wherefore  not,  Master  Alwyn  ? " 


376  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

Ahvyn  so  interpreted  the  look,  and  replied  as  if  she  had 
spoken  :  "Because  he  must  know  how  poor  and  tame  is  that 
feeble  fantasy,  which  alone  can  come  from  a  soul  worn  bare 
with  pleasure,  to  that  which  I  feel  and  now  own  for  thee — the 
love  of  youth,  born  of  the  heart's  first  vigor  ;  because  he  ought 
to  fear  that  that  love  should  prevail  with  thee  ;  because  that 
love  ought  to  prevail.  Sibyll,  between  us  there  are  not  imparity 
and  obstacle.  Oh,  listen  to  me — listen  still  !  Frown  not, 
turn  not  away."  And,  stung  and  animated  by  the  sight  of  his 
rival,  fired  by  the  excitement  of  a  contest  on  which  the  bliss 
of  his  own  life  and  the  weal  of  Sibyll's  might  depend,  his  voice 
was  as  the  cry  of  a  mortal  agony,  and  affected  the  girl  to  the 
inmost  recesses  of  her  soul. 

"  Oh,  Ahvyn,  I  frown  not !  "  she  said  sweetly — "  Oh,  Alwyn, 
I  turn  not  away !  Woe  is  me  to  give  pain  to  so  kind  and 
brave  a  heart ;  but —  " 

"  No,  speak  not  yet,  I  have  studied  thee :  I  have  read  thee 
•  as  a  scholar  would  read  a  book.  I  know  thee  proud  ;  I  know 
thee  aspiring  ;  I  know  thou  art  vain  of  thy  gentle  blood,  and 
distasteful  of  my  yeoman's  birth.  There,  I  am  not  blind  to 
thy  faults,  but  I  love  thee  despite  them  ;  and  to  please  those 
faults  I  have  toiled,  schemed,  dreamed,  risen — I  offer  to  thee 
the  future  with  the  certainty  of  a  man  who  can  command  it. 
Wouldst  thou  wealth  ?  Be  patient  (as  ambition  ever  is)  ;  in  a 
few  years  thou  shalt  have  more  gold  than  the  wife  of  Lord 
Hastings  can  command  ;  thou  shalt  lodge  more  statelily,  fare 
more  sumptuously  ;  *  thou  shalt  walk  on  cloth  of  gold  if  thou 
wilt  ?  Wouldst  thou  titles  ?  I  will  win  them.  Richard  de  la 
Pole,  who  founded  the  greatest  duchy  in  the  realm,  was  poorer 
than  I,  when  he  first  served  in  a  merchant's  ware.  Gold  buys 
all  things  now.  Oh,  would  to  Heaven  it  could  but  buy  me 
thee  !  " 

"  Master  Alwyn,  it  is  not  gold  that  buys  love.  Be  soothed. 
What  can  I  say  to  thee  to  soften  the  harsh  word  '  Nay '  ?  " 

"  You  reject  me,  then,  and  at  once.  I  ask  not  your  hand 
now.  I  will  wait,  tarry,  hope — I  care  not  if  for  years, — wait 
till  I  can  fulfil  all  I  promise  thee  !  " 

Sibyll,  affected  to  tears,  shook  her  head  mournfully  ;  and 
there  was  a  long  and  painful  silence.  Never  was  wooing  more 
strangely  circumstanced  than  this :  the  one  lover  pleading 
while  the  other  was  in  view  ;  the  one,  ardent,  impassioned  ; 
the  other,  calm  and  passive — and  the  silence  of  the  last,  alas  ! 

*  This  was  no  vain  promise  of  Master  Alwyn.  At  that  time  a  successful  trader  made  a 
fortune  with  signal  rapidity,  and  enjoyed  greater  luxuries  than  most  of  the  barons.  All 
the  gold  in  the  country  flowed  into  the  coffers  of  the  London  merghams, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  377 

having  all  the  success  which  the  words  of  the  other  lacked. 
It  might  be  said  that  the  choice  before  Sibyll  was  a  type  of  the 
choice  ever  given,  but  in  vain,  to  the  child  of  genius.  Here  a 
secure  and  peaceful  life,  an  honored  home,  a  tranquil  lot,  free 
from  ideal  visions,  it  is  true,  but  free  also  from  the  doubt  and 
the  terror — the  storms  of  passion  ;  there,  the  fatal  influence  of 
an  affection,  born  of  imagination,  sinister,  equivocal,  ominous, 
but  irresistible.  And  the  child  of  genius  fulfilled  her  destiny  ! 

"  Master  Alwyn,"  said  Sibyll,  rousing  herself  to  the  neces- 
sary exertion,  "  I  shall  never  cease  gratefully  to  recall  thy  gen- 
erous friendship — never  cease  to  pray  fervently  for  thy  weal 
below.  But  forever  and  forever  let  this  content  thee — I  can  no 
more." 

Impressed  by  the  grave  and  solemn  tone  of  Sibyll,  Alwyn 
hushed  the  groan  that  struggled  to  his  lips,  and  gloomily  re- 
plied :  "  I  obey  you,  fair  mistress,  and  I  return  to  my  work- 
day life  ;  but  ere  I  go,  I  pray  you  misthink  me  not  if  I  say  this 
much — not  alone  for  the  bliss  of  hoping  for  a  day  in  which  I" 
might  call  thee  mine  have  I  thus  importuned,  but,  not  less — I 
swear  not  less — from  the  soul's  desire  to  save  thee  from  what  I 
fear  will  but  lead  to  woe  and  wayment,  to  peril  and  pain,  to 
weary  days  and  sleepless  nights.  '  Better  a  little  fire  that 
warms  than  a  great  that  burns.'  Dost  thou  think  that  Lord 
Hastings,  the  vain,  the  dissolute — " 

"  Cease,  sir  ! "  said  Sibyll  proudly  ;  "  me  reprove  if  thou 
wilt,  but  lower  not  my  esteem  for  thee  by  slander  against 
another  !  " 

"  What !  "  said  Alwyn  bitterly  ;  "  doth  even  one  word  of 
counsel  chafe  thee  ;  I  tell  thee  that  if  thou  dreamest  that 
Lord  Hastings  loves  Sibyll  Warner  as  man  loves  the  maiden  he 
would  wed,  thou  deceives!  thyself  to  thine  own  misery.  If 
thou  wouldst  prove  it,  go  to  him  now — go  and  say  ;  '  Wilt  thou 
give  me  that  home  of  peace  and  honor — that  shelter  for  my 
father's  old  age  under  a  son's  roof  which  the  trader  I  despise 
proffers  me  in  vain  ?" 

"  If  it  were  already  proffered  me — by  him?  "  said  Sibyll,  in 
a  low  voice,  and  blushing  deeply. 

Ahvyn  started.  "Then  I  wronged  him  ;  and — and — "he 
added,  generously,  though  with  a  faint  sickness  at  his  heart, 
"I  can  yet  be  happy  in  thinking  thou  art  so.  Farewell,  maiden, 
the  saints  guard  thee  from  one  memory  of  regret  at  what  hath 
passed  between  us  ! " 

He  pulled  his  bonnet  hastily  over  his  brows,  and  departed 
with  unequal  and  rapid  strides.  As  he  passed  the  spot  where 


378  I  HB    LAST    OK    THK    HARONS. 

Hastings  stood,  leaning  his  arm  upon  the  wall,  and  his  face 
upon  his  hand,  the  nobleman  looked  up,  and  said  : 

"  Well,  sir  goldsmith,  own  at  least  that  thy  trial  hath  been  a 
fair  one  ! "  Then,  struck  with  the  anguish  written  upon 
Alwyn's  face,  he  walked  up  to  him,  and,  with  a  frank,  compas- 
sionate impulse,  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  :  "  Alwyn,"  he 
said,  "  I  have  felt  what  you  feel  now — I  have  survived  it,  and 
the  world  hath  not  prospered  with  me  less  !  Take  with  you  a 
compassion  that  respects,  and  does  not  degrade  you." 

"  Do  not  deceive  her,  my  lord — she  trusts  and  loves  you. 
You  never  deceived  man — the  wide  world  says  it — do  not  de- 
ceive woman  !  Deeds  kill  men  ! — words  women  !  "  Speaking 
thus  simply,  Alwyn  strode  on,  and  vanished. 

Hastings  slowly  and  silently  advanced  to  Sibyll.  Her  re- 
jection of  Alwyn  had  by  no  means  tended  to  reconcile  him  to 
the  marriage  he  himself  had  proffered.  He  might  well  suppose 
that  the  girl,  even  if  unguided  by  affection,  would  not  hesitate 
between  a  mighty  nobleman  and  an  obscure  goldsmith.  His 
pride  was  sorely  wounded  that  the  latter  should  have  even 
thought  himself  the  equal  of  one  whom  he  had  proposed, 
though  but  in  a  passionate  impulse,  to  raise  to  his  own  state. 
And  yet,  as  he  neared  Sibyll,  and,  with  a  light  footstep,  she 
sprang  forward  to  meet  him,  her  eyes  full  of  sweet  joy  and  confi- 
dence, he  shrank  from  an  avowal  which  must  wither  up  a 
heart  opening  thus  all  its  bloom  of  youth  and  love  to 
greet  him. 

"  Ah,  fair  lord,"  said  the  maiden,  "was  it  kindly  in  thee  to 
permit  poor  Alwyn  to  inflict  on  me  so  sharp  a  pain,  and  thou 
to  stand  calmly  distant  ?  Sure,  alas  !  that  had  thy  humble 
rival  proffered  a  crown,  it  had  been  the  same  to  Sibyll !  Oh, 
how  the  grief  it  was  i.nne  to  cause  grieved  me  ;  and  yet, 
through  all,  I  had  one  selfish,  guilty  gleam  of  pleasure — to 
think  that  I  had  not  been  loved  so  well,  if  I  were  all  unworthy 
the  sole  love  I  desire  or  covet !  " 

"  And  yet,  Sibyll,  this  young  man  can  in  all,  save  wealth  and 
a  sounding  name,  give  thee  more  than  I  can  ;  a  heart  un- 
darkened  by  moody  memories,  a  temper  unsoured  by  the 
world's  dread  and  bitter  lore  of  man's  frailty  and  earth's  sorrow. 
Ye  are  not  far  separated  by  ungenial  years,  and  might  glide  to 
a  common  grave  hand  in  hand  ;  but  I,  older  in  heart  than  in 
age,  am  yet  so  far  thine  elder  in  the  last,  that  these  hairs  will 
be  gray,  and  this  form  bent,  while  thy  beauty  is  in  its  prime, 
and — but  thou  weepest  !  " 

"  I  weep  that  thou  shouldst  bring  one  thought  of  time  to 


THE   LAST    OP   THE    BARONS.  379 

sadden  my  thoughts,  which  are  of  eternity.  Love  knows  no 
age,  it  foresees  no  grave  !  Its  happiness  and  its  trust  behold  on 
the  earth  but  one  glory,  melting  into  the  hues  of  heaven,  where 
they  who  love  lastingly  pass  calmly  on  to  live  forever  !  See,  I 
weep  not  now  !  " 

"And  did  not  this  honest  burgher,"  pursued  Hastings,  soft- 
ened and  embarrassed,  but  striving  to  retain  his  cruel  pur- 
pose, "  tell  thee  to  distrust  me  ? — tell  thee  that  my  vows  were 
false?" 

"  Methinks,  if  an  angel  told  me  so,  I  should  disbelieve  !  " 

"  Why,  look  thee,  Sibyll,  suppose  his  warning  true — suppose 
that  at  this  hour  I  sought  thee  with  intent  to  say  that  that  des- 
tiny which  ambition  weaves  for  itself  forbade  me  to  fulfil  a 
word  hotly  spoken  ? — that  I  could  not  wed  thee  ? — should  I  not 
seem  to  thee  a  false  wooer — a  poor  trifler  with  thy  earnest 
heart — and  so,  couldst  thou  not  recall  the  love  of  him  whose 
truer  and  worthier  homage  yet  lingers  in  thine  ear,  and  with 
him  be  happy  ?  " 

Sibyll  lifted  her  dark  eyes,  yet  humid,  upon  the  unrevealing 
face  of  the  speaker,  and  gazed  on  him  with  wistful  and  in- 
quiring sadness,  then,  shrinking  from  his  side,  she  crossed  her 
arms  meekly  on  her  bosom,  and  thus  said  : 

"If  ever,  since  we  parted,  one  such  thought  hath-  glanced 
across  thee — one  thought  of  repentance  at  the  sacrifice  of  pride, 
or  the  lessening  of  power — which  (she  faltered,  broke  off  the 
sentence,  and  resumed) — in  one  word,  if  thou  wouldst  retract, 
say  it  now,  and  I  will  not  accuse  thy  falseness,  but  bless  thy 
truth." 

"Thou  couldst  be  consoled  then,  by  thy  pride  of  woman,  for 
the  loss  of  an  unworthy  lover  ? " 

"  My  lord,  are  these  questions  fair  ?  " 

Hastings  was  silent.  The  gentler  part  of  his  nature  struggled 
severely  with  the  harder.  The  pride  of  Sibyll  moved  him  no 
less  than  her  trust ;  and  her  love  in  both  was  so  evident,  so 
deep,  so  exquisitely  contrasting  the  cold  and  frivolous  natures 
amidst  which  his  lot  had  fallen,  that  he  recoiled  from  casting 
away  forever  a  heart  never  to  be  replaced.  Standing  on  that 
bridge  of  life,  with  age  before  and  youth  behind,  he  felt  that 
never  again  could  he  be  so  loved,  or,  if  so  loved,  by  one  so 
worthy  of  whatever  of  pure  affection,  of  young  romance,  was 
yet  left  to  his  melancholy  and  lonely  soul. 

He  took  her  hand,  and,  as  she  felt  its  touch,  her  firmness 
forsook  her,  her  head  drooped  upon  her  bosom,  and  she  burst 
into  an  agony  of  tears. 


380  THE    LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

"Oil,  Sibyll,  forgive  me  .'  Smile  on  me  ngain,  Sibyll !  "  ex- 
claimed Hastings,  subdued  and  melted.  But,  alas  !  the  heart 
once  bruised  and  galled  recovers  itself  but  slowly,  and  it  was 
many  minutes  before  the  softest  words  the  eloquent  lover  could 
shape  to  sound  sufficed  to  dry  those  burning  tears,  and  bring  back 
the  enchanting  smile — nay,  even  then  the  smile  was  forced  and 
joyless.  They  walked  on  for  some  moments,  borh  in  thought, 
till  Hastings  said  :  "  Thou  lovest  me,  Sibyll,  and  art  worthy 
of  all  the  love  that  man  can  feel  for  maid  ;  and  yet,  canst  thou 
solve  me  this  question,  nor  chide  me  that  I  ask  it :  Dost  thou 
not  love  the  world  and  the  world's  judgment  more  than  me  ? 
What  is  that  which  women  calls  honor  ?  What  makes  them 
shrink  from  all  love  that  takes  not  the  form  and  circumstance 
of  the  world's  hollow  rites  ?  Does  love  cease  to  be  love,  un- 
less over  its  wealth  of  trust  and  emotion  the  priest  mouths  his 
empty  blessing  ?  Thou  in  thy  graceful  pride  art  angered  if  I, 
in  wedding  thee,  should  remember  the  sacrifice  which  men  like 
me — I  own  it  fairly — deem  as  great  as  man  can  make  ;  and  yet 
thou  wouldst  fly,  my  love,  if  it  wooed  thee  to  a  sacrifice  of 
thine  own  ?" 

Artfully  was  the  question  put,  and  Hastings  smiled  to  him- 
self in  imagining  the  reply  it  must  bring  ;  and  then  Sibyll 
answered  with  the  blush  which  the  very  subject  called  forth  : 

"Alas,  my  lord,  I  am  but  a  poor  casuist,  but  I  feel  that  if  I 
asked  thee  to  forfeit  whatever  men  respect — honor,  and  repute 
for  valor — to  be  traitor  and  dastard,  thou  couldst  love  me  no 
more  ;  and  marvel  you,  if  when  man  woos  woman  to  forfeit  all 
that  her  sex  holds  highest — to  be  in  woman  what  dastard  and 
traitor  is  in  man — she  hears  her  conscience  and  her  God  speak 
in  a  louder  voice  than  can  come  from  a  human  lip  ?  The  goods 
and  pomps  of  the  world  we  are  free  to  sacrifice,  and  true  love 
needs  and  counts  them  not ;  but  true  love  cannot  sacrifice  that 
which  makes  up  love  ;  it  cannot  sacrifice  the  right  to  be  loved 
below,  the  hope  to  love  on  in  the  realm  above,  the  power  to 
pray  with  a  pure  soul  for  the  happiness  it  yearns  to  make,  the 
blessing  to  seem  ever  good  and  honored  in  the  eyes  of  the  one 
by  whom  alone  it  would  be  judged — and  therefore,  sweet  lord, 
true  love  never  contemplates  this  sacrifice  ;  and  if  once  it  be- 
lieves itself  truly  loved,  it  trusts  with  a  fearless  faith  in  the 
love  on  which  it  leans." 

"  Sibyll,  would  to  Heaven  I  had  seen  thee  in  my  youth  ! 
Would  to  Heaven  I  were  more  worthy  of  thee  !  "  And  in  that 
interview  Hastings  had  no  heart  to  utter  what  he  had  resolved : 
"  Sibyll,  I  sought  thee  but  to  say,  Farewell." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  381 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WARWICK  RETURNS — APPEASES  A  DISCONTENTED  PRINCE AND 

CONFERS  WITH  A  REVENGEFUL  CONSPIRATOR. 

IT  was  not  till  late  in  the  evening  that  Warwick  arrived  at 
his  vast  residence  in  London,  where  he  found  not  only  Mar- 
niaduke  Nevile  ready  to  receive  him,  but  a  more  august  expec- 
tant, in  George  Duke  of  Clarence.  Scarcely  had  the  Earl 
crossed  the  threshold,  when  the  Duke  seized  his  arm,  and  lead- 
ing him  into  the  room  that  adjoined  the  hall,  said  : 

"  Verily  Edward  is  besotted  no  less  than  ever  by  his  wife's 
leech-like  family.  Thou  knowest  my  appointment  to  the  gov- 
ernment of  Ireland  ;  Isabel,  like  myself,  cannot  endure  the 
subordinate  vassalage  we  must  brook  at  the  court,  with  the 
Queen's  cold  looks  and  sour  words.  Thou  knowest,  also,  with 
what  vain  pretexts  Edward  hath  put  me  off  ;  and  now,  this 
very  day,  he  tells  me  that  he  hath  changed  his  humor  ;  that  I 
am  not  stern  enough  for  the  Irish  kernes  ;  that  he  loves  me 
too  well  to  banish  me,  forsooth  ;  and  that  Worcester,  the 
people's  butcher,  but  the  Queen's  favorite,  must  have  the  post 
so  sacredly  pledged  to  me.  I  see,  in  this,  Elizabeth's  crafty 
malice.  Is  this  struggle  between  King's  blood  and  Queen's 
kith  to  go  on  forever  ?  " 

"Calm  thyself,  George  ;  I  will  confer  with  the  King  to-mor- 
row, and  hope  to  compass  thy  not  too  arrogant  desire.  Certes, 
a  king's  brother  is  the  fittest  vice-king  for  the  turbulent  kernes 
of  Ireland,  who  are  ever  flattered  into  obeisance  by  ceremony 
and  show.  The  government  was  pledged  to  thee — Edward 
can  scarcely  be  serious.  Moreover,  Worcester,  though  forsooth 
a  learned  man  {Mort  Dieu !  methinks  that  same  learning  fills 
the  head  to  drain  the  heart  !)  is  so  abhorred  for  his  cruelties 
that  his  very  landing  in  Ireland  will  bring  a  new  rebellion  to 
add  to  our  already  festering  broils  and  sores.  Calm  thyself,  I 
say.  Where  didst  thou  leave  Isabel  ?  " 

"With  my  mother." 

"And  Anne?  The  Queen  chills  not  her  young  heart  with 
cold  grace?" 

"  Nay — the  Queen  dare  not  unleash  her  malice  against  Ed- 
ward's will ;  and,  to  do  him  justice,  he  hath  shown  all  honor  to 
Lord  Warwick's  daughter." 

"  He  is  a  gallant  prince,  with  all  his  faults,"  said  the  father 
neartily,  "  and  we  must  bear  with  him,  George  ;  for  verily  he 
bound  men  by  a  charm  to  Jove  him.  Stay  thou,  and 


$82  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

share  my  hasty  repast,  and  over  the  wine  we  will  talk  of  thy 
views.  Spare  me  now  for  a  moment  ;  1  have  to  prepare  work 
eno'  for  a  sleepless  night.  This  Lincolnshire  rebellion  prom- 
ises much  trouble.  Lord  Willoughby  has  joined  it — more  than 
twenty  thousand  men  are  in  arms.  I  have  already  sent  to  con- 
vene the  knights  and  barons  on  whom  the  King  can  best 
depend,  and  must  urge  their  instant  departure  for  their  halls, 
to  raise  men  and  meet  the  foe.  While  Edward  feasts,  his  min- 
ister must  toil.  Tarry  awhile,  till  I  return." 

The  Earl  re-entered  the  hall,  and  beckoned  to  Marmaduke, 
who  stood  amongst  a  group  of  squires. 

"  Follow  me  ;  I  may  have  work  for  thee."  Warwick  took  a 
taper  from  one  of  the  servitors,  and  led  the  way  to  his  own 
more  private  apartment.  On  the  landing  of  the  staircase,  by  a 
small  door,  stood  his  body  squire:  "  Is  the  prisoner  within  ? " 

"Yes,  my  lord." 

"  Good  !  "  The  Earl  opened  the  door  by  which  the  squire 
had  mounted  guard,  and  bade  Marmaduke  wait  without. 

The  inmate  of  the  chamber,  whose  dress  bore  the  stains  of 
fresh  travel  and  hard  riding,  lifted  his  face  hastily  as  the  Earl 
entered. 

"  Robin  Hilyard,"  said  Warwick,  "I  have  mused  much  how 
to  reconcile  my  service  to  the  King  with  the  gratitude  I  owe 
to  a  man  who  saved  me  from  great  danger.  In  the  midst  of 
thy  unhappy  and  rebellious  designs,  thou  wert  captured  and 
brought  to  me ;  the  papers  found  on  thee  attest  a  Lancastrian 
revolt ;  so  ripening  towards  a  mighty  gathering,  and  so  formid- 
able from  the  adherents  whom  the  gold  and  intrigues  of  King 
Louis  have  persuaded  to  risk  land  and  life  for  the  Red  Rose, 
that  all  the  King's  friends  can  do  to  save  his  throne  is  now 
needed.  In  this  revolt  thou  hast  been  the  scheming  brain,  the 
master  hand,  the  match  to  the  bombard,  the  firebrand  to  the 
flax.  Thou  smilest,  man  !  Alas  !  seest  thou  not  that  it  is  my 
stern  duty  to  send  thee  bound  hand  and  foot  before  the  King's 
council — for  the  brake  to  wring  from  thee  thy  guilty  secrets, 
and  the  gibbet  to  close  thy  days  ?  " 

"  I  am  prepared,"  said  Hilyard  ;  "  when  the  bombard  ex- 
plodes, the  match  has  become  useless  ;  when  the  flame  smites 
the  welkin,  the  firebrand  is  consumed  ! " 

"  Bold  man  !  what  seest  thou  in  this  rebellion  that  can  profit 
thee  ? " 

"  I  see  looming  through  the  chasms  and  rents  made  in 
the  feudal  order  by  civil  war,  the  giant  image  of  a  free 
people." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  383 

"  And  thou  wouldst  be  a  martyr  for  the  multitude,  who 
deserted  thee  at  Olney  ? " 

"  As  thou  for  the  King,  who  dishonored  thee  at  Shene  !  " 

Warwick  frowned,  and  there  was  a  moment's  pause  ;  at  last, 
said  the  Earl  :  "  Look  you,  Robin,  I  would  fain  not  have  on 
my  hands  the  blood  of  a  man  who  saved  my  life.  I  believe 
thee,  though  a  fanatic  and  half-madman — I  believe  thee  true 
in  word  as  rash  of  deed.  Swear  to  me  on  the  cross  of  this 
dagger,  that  thou  wilt  lay  aside  all  scheme  and  plot  for  this 
rebellion,  all  aid  and  share  in  civil  broil  and  dissension,  and 
thy  life  and  liberty  are  restored  to  thee.  In  that  intent  I  have 
summoned  my  own  kinsman,  Marmaduke  Nevile.  He  waits 
without  the  door  ;  he  shall  conduct  thee  safely  to  the  seashore  ; 
thou  shall  gain  in  peace  my  government  of  Calais,  and  my 
seneschal  there  shall  find  thee  all  thou  canst  need — meat  for 
thy  hunger,  and  moneys  for  thy  pastime.  Accept  my  mercy, 
take  the  oath,  and  begone." 

"  My  lord,"  answered  Hilyard,  much  touched  and  affected, 
"  blame  not  thyself  if  this  carcase  feed  the  crows — my  blood  be 
on  my  own  head  !  I  cannot  take  this  oath  ;  I  cannot  live  in 
peace  ;  strife  and  broil  are  grown  to  me  food  and  drink.  Oh, 
my  lord  !  thou  knowest  not  what  dark  and  baleful  memories 
made  me  an  agent  in  God's  hand  against  this  ruthless  Edward  "; 
and  then  passionately,  with  whitening  lips  and  convulsive  fea- 
tures, Hilyard  recounted  to  the  startled  Warwick  the  same  tale 
which  had  roused  the  sympathy  of  Adam  Warner. 

The  Earl,  whose  affections  were  so  essentially  homely  and 
domestic,  was  even  more  shocked  than  the  scholar  by  the  fear- 
ful narrative. 

"  Unhappy  man  !  "  he  said,  with  moistened  eyes,  "  from  the 
core  of  my  heart,  I  pity  thee.  But  thou,  the  scathed  sufferer 
from  civil  war,  wilt  thou  be  now  its  dread  reviver?  " 

"  If  Edward  had  wronged  thee,  great  Earl,  as  me,  poor  frank- 
lin, what  would  be  thine  answer  ?  In  vain  moralize  to  him 
whom  the  spectre  of  a  murdered  child  and  the  shriek  of  a 
maniac  wife  haunt  and  hound  on  to  vengeance  !  So  send  me 
to  rack  and  halter.  Be  there  one  curse  more  on  the  soul  of 
Edward  !  " 

"  Thou  shalt  not  die  through  my  witness,"  said  the  Earl 
abruptly,  and  he  quitted  the  chamber. 

Securing  the  door  by  a  heavy  bolt  on  the  outside,  he  gave 
orders  to  attend  to  the  comforts  of  the  prisoner :  and  then, 
turning  into  his  closet  with  Marmaduke,  said  :  "  I  sent  for 
thee,  young  cousin,  with  design  to  commit  to  thy  charge  one 


384  1HK    LAST    OK    TI1K    HA  RONS. 

whose  absence  from  England  I  deemed  needful — that  design  I 
must  abandon.  Go  back  to  the  palace,  and  see,  if  thou  canst, 
the  King,  before  he  sleeps ;  say  that  this  rising  in  Lincolnshire 
is  more  than  a  riot ;  it  is  the  first  burst  of  a  revolution  !  that  I 
hold  council  here  to-night,  and  every  shire,  ere  the  morrow, 
shall  have  its  appointed  captain.  I  will  see  the  King  at  morn- 
ing. Yet  stay — gain  sight  of  my  child  Anne  ;  she  will  leave 
the  court  to-morrow.  I  will  come  for  her — bid  her  train  be 
prepared  ;  she  and  the  Countess  must  away  to  Calais — England 
again  hath  ceased  to  be  a  home  for  women  !  What  to  do  with 
this  poor  rebel  ?  "  muttered  the  Earl,  when  alone — "  release 
him  I  cannot,  slay  him  I  will  not.  Hum — there  is  space 
enough  in  these  walls  to  enclose  a  captive." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    FEAR    AND    THE    FLIGHT. 

KING  EDWARD  feasted  high,  and  Sibyll  sate  in  her  father's 
chamber — she  silent  with  thought  of  love,  Adam  silent  in  the 
toils  of  science.  The  Eureka  was  well-nigh  finished — rising 
from  its  ruins,  more  perfect,  more  elaborate,  than  before. 
Maiden  and  scholar,  each  seeming  near  to  the  cherished  goal — 
one  to  love's  genial  altar,  the  other  to  fame's  lonely  shrine. 

Evening  advanced — night  began — night  deepened.  King 
Edward's  feast  was  over,  but  still  in  his  perfumed  chamber  the 
wine  sparkled  in  the  golden  cup.  It  was  announced  to  him 
that  Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile,  just  arrived  from  the  Earl's  house, 
craved  an  audience.  The  King,  preoccupied  in  deep  revery, 
impatiently  postponed  it  till  the  morrow. 

"  To-morrow,"  said  the  gentleman  in  attendance,  "  Sir  Mar- 
maduke bids  me  say,  fearful  that  the  late  hour  would  forbid 
his  audience,  that  Lord  Warwick  himself  will  visit  your  Grace. 
I  fear,  sire,  that  the  disturbances  are  great  indeed,  for  the 
squires  and  gentlemen  in  Lady  Anne's  train  have  orders  to 
accompany  her  to  Calais  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow,  to-morrow  !  "  repeated  the  King  ;  "  Well,  sir, 
you  are  dismissed." 

The  Lady  Anne  (to  whom  Sibyll  had  previously  communi- 
cated the  King's  kindly  consideration  for  Master  Warner),  had 
just  seen  Marmaduke,  and  learned  the  new  dangers  that 
awaited  the  throne  and  the  realm.  The  Lancastrians  were 
then  openly  in  arms  for  the  Prince  of  her  love,  and  against  her 
mighty  father  ! 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  385 

The  Lady  Anne  sate  awhile,  sorrowful  and  musing,  and  then, 
before  yon  crucifix,  the  Lady  Anne  knelt  in  prayer. 

Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile  descends  to  the  court  below,  and 
some  three  or  four  busy,  curious  gentlemen,  not  yet  abed, 
seize  him  by  the  arm,  and  pray  him  stay  what  storm  is  in  the 
wind. 

The  night  deepened  still — the  wine  is  drained  in  King 
Edward's  goblet — King  Edward  has  left  his  chamber — and 
Sibyll,  entreating  her  father,  but  in  vain,  to  suspend  his  toil, 
has  kissed  the  damps  from  his  brow,  and  is  about  to  retire  to 
her  neighboring  room.  She  has  turned  to  the  threshold,  when, 
hark  ! — a  faint,  a  distant  cry,  a  woman's  shriek,  the  noise  of  a 
clapping  door  !  The  voice — it  is  the  voice  of  Anne  !  Sibyll 
passed  the  threshold — she  is  in  the  corridor — the  winter  moon 
shines  through  the  open  arches — the  air  is  white  and  cold  with 
frost.  Suddenly  the  door  at  the  farther  end  is  thrown  wide 
open,  a  form  rushes  into  the  corridor,  it  passes  Sibyll,  halts, 
turns  round  :  "  Oh,  Sibyll  !  "  cried  the  Lady  Anne,  in  a  voice 
wild  with  horror,  "  save  me — aid — help  !  Merciful  Heaven, 
the  King!" 

Instinctively,  wonderingly,  tremblingly,  Sibyll  drew  Anne 
into  the  chamber  she  had  just  quitted,  and  as  they  gained  its 
shelter — as  Anne  sunk  upon  the  floor — the  gleam  of  cloth  of 
gold  flashed  through  the  dim  atmosphere,  and  Edward,  yet  in 
the  royal  robe  in  which  he  had  dazzled  all  the  eyes  at  his 
kingly  feast,  stood  within  the  chamber.  His  countenance  was 
agitated  with  passion,  and'its  clear  hues  flushed  red  with  wine. 
At  his  entrance  Anne  sprang  from  the  floor  and  rushed  to 
Warner,  who,  in  dumb  bewilderment,  had  suspended  his  task, 
and  stood  before  the  Eureka,  from  which  steamed  and  rushed 
the  dark  rapid  smoke,  while  round  and  round,  laboring  and 
groaning,  rolled  its  fiery  wheels.* 

"  Sir,"  cried  Anne,  clinging  to  him  convulsively,  "  You  are 
a  father — by  your  child's  soul,  protect  Lord  Warwick's  daugh- 
ter ! " 

Roused  from  his  abstraction  by  this  appeal,  the  poor  scholar 
wound  his  arm  round  the  form  thus  clinging  to  him,  and  rais- 
ing his  head  with  dignity,  replied  :  "  Thy  name,  youth,  and  sex 
protect  thee  !  " 

"  Unhand  that  lady,  vile  sorcerer,"  exclaimed  the  King — "/ 
am  her  protector.  Come,  Anne,  sweet  Anne,  fair  lady — thou 

*  The  gentle  reader  will  doubtless  bear  in  mind  that  Master  Warner's  complicated  model 
had  but  little  resemblance  to  the  models  of  the  steam  engine  in  our  own  day,  and  that  it 
was  usually  connected  with  other  contrivances,  for  the  better  display  of  the  principle  it 
was  intended  to  illustrate. 


386  THE    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

mistakes! — come  !  "  he  whispered.  "  Give  not  to  these  low 
natures  matter  for  guesses  that  do  but  shame  thee.  Let  thy 
King  and  cousin  lead  thee  back  to  thy  sweet  rest." 

He  sought,  though  gently,  to  loosed  the  arms  that  wound 
themselves  round  the  old  man  ;  but  Anne,  not  heeding,  not 
listening,  distracted  by  a  terror  that  seemed  to  shake  her  whole 
frame,  and  to  threaten  her  very  reason,  continued  to  cry  out 
loudly  upon  her  father's  name — her  great  father,  wakeful,  then, 
for  the  baffled  ravisher's  tottering  throne  ! 

Edward  had  still  sufficient  possession  of  his  reason  to  be 
alarmed  lest  some  loiterer  or  sentry  in  the  outer  court  might 
hear  the  cries  which  his  attempts  to  soothe  but  the  more  pro- 
voked. Grinding  his  teeth  and  losing  patience,  he  said  to 
Adam  :  "  Thou  knovvest  me,  friend — I  am  thy  King.  Since 
the  Lady  Anne,  in  her  bewilderment,  prefers  thine  aid  to  mine, 
help  to  bear  her  back  to  her  apartment  ;  and  thou,  young 
mistress,  lend  thine  arm.  This  wizard's  den  is  no  fit  chamber 
for  our  high-born  guest." 

"  No,  no  ;  drive  me  not  hence,  Master  Warner.  That  man — 
that  King — give  me  not  up  to  his — his — " 

"  Beware  !  "  exclaimed  the  King. 

It  was  not  till  now  that  Adam's  simple  mind  comprehended 
the  true  cause  of  Anne's  alarm,  which  Sibyll  still  conjectured 
not,  but  stood  trembling  by  her  friend's  side,  and  close  to  her 
father. 

"  Do  not  fear,  maiden,"  said  Adam  Warner,  laying  his  hand 
upon  the  loosened  locks  that  swept  over  his  bosom,  "  for  though 
I  am  old  and  feeble,  God  and  his  angels  are  in  every  spot 
where  virtue  trembles  and  resists.  My  lord  King,  thy  sceptre 
extends  not  over  a  human  soul !  " 

"  Dotard,  prate  not  to  me  ! "  said  Edward,  laying  his  hand 
on  his  dagger. 

Sibyll  saw  the  movement,  and  instinctively  placed  herself 
between  her  father  and  the  King.  That  slight  form,  those 
pure,  steadfast  eyes,  those  features,  noble  at  once  and  delicate, 
recalled  to  Edward  the  awe  which  had  seized  him  in  his  first  dark 
design  ;  and  again  that  awe  came  over  him.  He  retreated. 

"  I  mean  harm  to  none,"  said  he,  almost  submissively  ;  "and 
if  I  am  so  unhappy  as  to  scare  with  my  presence  the  Lady 
Anne,  I  will  retire,  praying  you,  donzell,  to  see  to  her  state, 
and  lead  her  back  to  her  chamber  when  it  so  pleases  herself. 
Saying  this  much,  I  command  you,  old  man,  and  you,  maiden, 
to  stand  back  while  I  but  address  one  sentence  to  the  Lady 
Anne." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  387 

With  these  words  he  gently  advanced  to  Anne,  and  took  her 
hand  ;  but,  snatching  it  from  him,  the  poor  lady  broke  from 
Adam,  rushed  to  the  casement,  opened  it,  and  seeing  some 
figures  indistinct  and  distant  in  the  court  below,  she  called  out 
in  a  voice  of  such  sharp  agony,  that  it  struck  remorse  and  even 
terror  into  Edward's  soul. 

"  Alas  !  "  he  muttered,  "  she  will  not  listen  to  me,  her  mind 
is  distraught  !  What  frenzy  has  been  mine  !  Pardon — pardon, 
Anne — oh,  pardon  !  " 

Adam  Warner  laid  his  hand  on  the  King's  arm,  and  he  drew 
the  imperious  despot  away  as  easily  as  a  nurse  leads  a  docile 
child. 

"  King  !  "  said  the  brave  old  man,  "  may  God  pardon  thee  ! 
for  if  the  last  evil  hath  been  wrought  upon  this  noble  lady, 
David  sinned  not  more  heavily  than  thou." 

"  She  is  pure — inviolate — I  swear  it !  "  said  the  King  humbly. 
"  Anne,  only  say  that  I  am  forgiven." 

But  Anne  spoke  not  :  her  eyes  were  fixed — her  lips  had 
fallen — she  was  insensible  as  a  corpse — dumb  and  frozen  with 
her  ineffable  dread.  Suddenly  steps  were  heard  upon  the 
stairs  ;  the  door  opened,  and  Marmaduke  Nevile  entered 
abruptly. 

"  Surely  I  heard  my  lady's  voice — surely  !  What  marvel 
this  ?  The  King  !  Pardon,  my  liege  !  " — and  he  bent  his  knee. 

The  sight  of  Marmaduke  dissolved  the  spell  of  awe  and  re- 
pentant humiliation  which  had  chained  the  King's  dauntless 
heart.  His  wonted  guile  returned  to  him  with  his  self-posses- 
sion. 

"  Our  wise  craftsman's  strange  and  weird  invention  (and 
Edward  pointed  to  the  Eureka) — has  scared  our  fair  cousin's 
senses,  as,  by  sweet  St.  George,  it  well  might !  Go  back,  Sir 
Marmaduke,  we  will  leave  Lady  Anne  for  a  moment  to  the 
care  of  Mistress  Sibyll.  Donzell,  remember  my  command. 
Come,  sir,"  (and  he  drew  the  wondering  Marmaduke  from  the 
chamber),  but  as  soon  as  he  had  seen  the  knight  descend  the 
stairs  and  regain  the  court,  he  returned  to  the  room,  and  in  a 
low  stern  voice,  said  :  "  Look  you,  Master  Warner,  and  you, 
damsel,  if  ever  either  of  ye  breathe  one  word  of  what  has  been 
your  dangerous  fate  to  hear  and  witness,  kings  have  but  one 
way  to  punish  slanderers,  and  silence  but  one  safeguard — trifle 
not  with  death  !  " 

He  then  closed  the  door,  and  resought  his  own  chamber. 
The  Eastern  spices,  which  were  burned  in  the  sleeping-rooms  of 
the  great,  still  made  the  air  heavy  with  their  feverish  fragrance, 


388  THE    LAST    OF    TUT.    HARONS. 

The  King  seated  himself,  and  strove  to  recollect  his  thoughts, 
and  examine  the  peril  he  had  provoked.  The  resistance  and 
the  terror  of  Anne  had  effectually  banished  from  his  heart  the 
guilty  passion  it  had  before  harbored  ;  for  emotions  like  his, 
and  in  such  a  nature,  are  quick  of  change.  His  prevailing 
feeling  was  one  of  sharp  repentance,  and  reproachful  shame. 
But,  as  he  roused  himself  from  a  state  of  mind  which  light 
characters  ever  seek  to  escape,  the  image  of  the  dark-browed 
Earl  rose  before  him,  and  fear  succeeded  to  mortification  ;  but 
even  this,  however  well-founded,  could  not  endure  long  in  a 
disposition  so  essentially  scornful  of  all  danger.  Before  morn- 
ing, the  senses  of  Anne  must  return  to  her.  So  gentle  a  bosom 
could  be  surely  reasoned  out  of  resentment,  or  daunted,  at  least, 
from  betraying  to  her  stern  father  a  secret  that,  if  told,  would 
smear  the  sward  of  England  with  the  gore  of  thousands.  What 
woman  will  provoke  war  and  bloodshed  ?  And  for  an  evil  not 
wrought — fora  purpose  not  fulfilled  ?  The  King  was  grateful 
that  his  victim  had  escaped  him.  He  would  see  Anne  before 
the  Earl  could,  and  appease  her  anger — obtain  her  silence  ! 
For  Warner,  and  for  Sibyll,  they  would  not  dare  to  reveal ;  and, 
if  they  did,  the  lips  that  accuse  a  king  should  belie  themselves, 
while  a  rack  can  torture  truth,  and  the  doomsman  be  the  only 
judge  between  the  subject  and  the  head  that  wears  a  crown  ! 

Thus  reasoning  with  himself,  his  soul  faced  the  solitude. 
Meanwhile  Marmaduke  regained  the  courtyard,  where,  as  we 
have  said,  he  had  been  detained  in  conferring  with  some  of  the 
gentlemen  in  the  King's  service,  who,  hearing  that  he  brought 
important  tidings  from  the  Earl,  had  abstained  from  rest  till  they 
could  learn  if  the  progress  of  the  new  rebellion  would  bring  their 
swords  into  immediate  service.  Marmaduke,  pleased  to  be  of 
importance,  had  willingly  satisfied  their  curiosity,  as  far  as  he 
was  able,  and  was  just  about  to  retire  to  his  own  chamber, 
when  the  cry  of  Anne  had  made  him  enter  the  postern  door  which 
led  up  the  stairs  to  Adam's  apartment,  and  which  was  fortu- 
nately not  locked  ;  and  now,  on  returning,  he  had  again  a  new 
curiosity  to  allay.  Having  briefly  said  that  Master  Warner 
had  taken  that  untoward  hour  to  frighten  the  women  with  a 
machine  that  vomited  smoke  and  howled  piteously,  Marmaduke 
dismissed  the  group  to  their  beds,  and  was  about  to  seek  his 
own,  when,  looking  once  more  towards  the  casement,  he  saw  a 
white  hand  gleaming  in  the  frosty  moonlight,  and  beckoning 
to  him. 

The  knight  crossed  himself,  and  reluctantly  ascended  the 
stairs,  and  re-entered  the  wizard's  den. 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  389 

The  Lady  Anne  had  so  far  recovered  herself  that  a  kind  of 
unnatural  calm  had  taken  possession  of  her  mind,  and  changed 
her  ordinary  sweet  and  tractable  nature  into  one  stern,  obsti- 
nate resolution, — to  escape,  if  possible,  that  unholy  palace. 
And  as  soon  as  Marmaduke  re-entered,  Anne  met  him  at 
the  threshold,  and  laying  her  hand  convulsively  on  his  arm, 
said  : 

"  By  the  name  you  bear — by  your  love  to  my  father,  aid  me 
to  quit  these  walls." 

In  great  astonishment,  Marmaduke  stared,  without  reply. 

"  Do  you  deny  me,  sir?"  said  Anne,  almost  sternly. 

"  Lady  and  mistress  mine,"  answered  Marmaduke,  "  I  am 
your  servant  in  all  things.  Quit  these  walls — the  palace  ! 
How  ! — the  gates  are  closed.  Nay,  and  what  would  my  lord 
say,  if  at  night — " 

"  If  at  night  /"  repeated  Anne,  in  a  hollow  voice  ;  and  then 
pausing,  burst  into  a  terrible  laugh.  Recovering  herself  ab~ 
ruptly,  she  moved  to  the  door;  "I  will  go  forth  alone,  and 
trust  in  God  and  our  Lady." 

Sibyll  sprang  forward  to  arrest  her  steps,  and  Marmaduke 
hastened  to  Adam,  and  whispered  :  "  Poor  lady,  is  her  mind 
unsettled  ?  Hast  thou,  in  truth,  distracted  her  with  thy  spells 
and  glamour?" 

"  Hush  !  "  answered  the  old  man  ;  and  he  whispered  in  the 
Nevile's  ear. 

Scarcely  had  the  knight  caught  the  words,  than  his  cheek 
paled — his  eyes  flashed  fire.  "The  great  Earl's  daughter !" 
he  exclaimed — "infamy! — horror — she  is  right !"  He  broke 
from  the  student,  approached  Anne,  who  still  struggled  with 
Sibyll,  and  kneeling  before  her,  said,  in  a  voice  choked  with 
passions  at  once  fierce  and  tender  : 

"  Lady,  you  are  right.  Unseemly  it  may  be  for  one  of 
your  quality  and  sex  to  quit  this  place  with  me,  and  alone  ; 
but  at  least  I  have  a  man's  heart — a  knight's  honor.  Trust  to 
me  your  safety,  noble  maiden,  and  I  will  cut  your  way,  even 
through  yon  foul  King's  heart,  to  your  great  father's  side  !  " 

Anne  did  not  seem  quite  to  understand  his  words,  but  she 
smiled  on  him  as  he  knelt,  and  gave  him  her  hand.  The  re- 
sponsibility he  had  assumed  quickened  all  the  intellect  of  the 
young  knight.  As  he  took  and  kissed  the  hand  extended  to 
him%  he  felt  the  ring  upon  his  finger — the  ring  entrusted  to 
him  by  Alwyn — the  King's  signet-ring,  before  which  would  fly 
open  every  gate.  He  uttered  a  joyous  exclamation,  loosened 
his  long  night-cloak,  and  praying  Anne  to  envelop  her  form  in 


390  THE    LAST    OF   THE    BARONS. 

its  folds,  drew  the  hood  over  her  head  ;  he  was  about  to  lead 
her  forth,  when  he  halted  suddenly. 

"Alack,"  said  he,  turning  to  Sibyll,  "even  though  we  may 
escape  the  tower,  no  boatman  now  can  be  found  on  the  river. 
The  way  through  the  streets  is  dark  and  perilous,  and  beset 
with  midnight  ruffians." 

"  Verily,"  said  Warner,  "  the  danger  is  past  now.  Let  the 
noble  demoiselle  rest  here  until  morning.  The  King  dare  not 
again — " 

"  Dare  not  !  "  interrupted  Marmaduke.  "  Alas  !  you  little 
know  King  Edward." 

At  that  name  Anne  shuddered,  opened  the  door,  and  hurried 
down  the  stair  ;  Sibyll  and  Marmaduke  followed  her. 

"  Listen,  Sir  Marmaduke,"  said  Sibyll.  "  Close  without  the 
Tower  is  the  house  of  a  noble  lady,  the  dame  of  Longueville, 
where  Anne  may  rest  in  safety,  while  you  seek  Lord  Warwick. 
I  will  go  with  you,  if  you  can  obtain  egress  for  us  both." 

"  Brave  damsel !  "  said  Marmaduke  with  emotion, — "  but 
your  own  safety — the  King's  anger — no — besides,  a  third,  your 
dress  not  concealed,  would  create  the  warder's  suspicion. 
Describe  the  house." 

"  The  third  to  the  left,  by  the  river's  side,  with  an  arched 
porch,  and  the  fleur-de-lis  embossed  on  the  walls." 

"  It  is  not  so  dark  but  we  shall  find  it.  Fare  you  well,  gen- 
tle mistress." 

While  they  yet  spoke,  they  had  both  reached  the  side  of 
Anne.  Sibyll  still  persisted  in  the  wish  to  accompany  her 
friend  ;  but  Marmaduke's  representation  of  the  peril  to  life 
itself,  that  might  befall  her  father,  if  Edward  learned  she  had 
abetted  Anne's  escape,  finally  prevailed.  The  knight  and  his 
charge  gained  the  outer  gate. 

"  Haste,  haste,  Master  Warder  !  "  he  cried,  beating  at  the 
door  with  his  dagger  till  it  opened  jealously — "messages  of 
importance  to  the  Lord  Warwick.  We  have  the  King's  signet. 
Open  !  " 

The  sleepy  warder  glanced  at  the  ring — the  gates  were 
opened.  They  were  without  the  fortress — they  hurried  on. 

"  Cheer  up,  noble  lady  ;  you  are  safe — you  shall  be  avenged  ! " 
said  Marmaduke,  as  he  felt  the  steps  of  his  companion  falter. 

But  the  reaction  had  come.  The  effort  Anne  had  hitherto 
made  was  for  escape — for  liberty  ;  the  strength  ceased,  the 
object  gained  ;  her  head  drooped,  she  muttered  a  few  incohe- 
rent words,  and  then  sense  and  life  left  her.  Marmaduke 
paused  in  great  perplexity  and  alarm.  But  lo,  a  light  in  a 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  391 

house  before  him  ! — that  house  the  third  to  the  river — the  only 
one  with  the  arched  porch  described  by  Sibyll.  He  lifted  the 
light  and  holy  burthen  in  his  strong  arms — he  gained  the  door ; 
to  his  astonishment,  it  was  open — a  light  burned  on  the  stairs — 
he  heard,  in  the  upper  room,  the  sound  of  whispered  voices, 
and  quick,  soft  footsteps,  hurrying  to  and  fro.  Still  bearing 
the  insensible  form  of  his  companion,  he  ascended  the  stair- 
case, and  entered  at  once  upon  a  chamber,  in  which,  by  a  dim 
lamp,  he  saw  some  two  or  three  persons  assembled  round  a  bed 
in  the  recess.  A  grave  man  advanced  to  him,  as  he  paused  at 
the  threshold  : 

"  Whom  seek  you  ?  " 

"  The  Lady  Longueville." 

"Hush!" 

"  Who  needs  me  ?  "  said  a  faint  voice,  from  the  curtained 
recess. 

"  My  name  is  Nevile,"  answered  Marmaduke,  with  straight- 
forward brevity.  "  Mistress  Sibyll  Warner  told  me  of  this 
house,  where  I  come  for  an  hour's  shelter  to  my  companion, 
the  Lady  Anne,  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick." 

Marmaduke  resigned  his  charge  to  an  old  woman,  who  was 
the  nurse  in  that  sick  chamber,  and  who  lifted  the  hood,  and 
chafed  the  pale,  cold  hands  of  the  young  maiden  ;  the  knight 
then  strode  to  the  recess.  The  Lady  of  Longueville  was  on 
the  bed  of  death — an  illness  of  two  days  had  brought  her  to 
the  brink  of  the  grave — but  there  was  in  her  eye  and  coun- 
tenance a  restless  and  preternatural  animation,  and  her  voice 
was  clear  and  shrill,  as  she  said  : 

"  Why  does  the  daughter  of  Warwick,  the  Yorkist,  seek 
refuge  in  the  house  of  the  fallen  and  childless  Lancastrian  ?  " 

"  Swear,  by  thy  hopes  in  Christ,  that  thou  wilt  tend  and 
guard  her  while  I  seek  the  Earl,  and  I  reply." 

"  Stranger,  my  name  is  Longueville — my  birth  noble — those 
pledges  of  hospitality  and  trust  are  stronger  than  hollow  oaths. 
Say  on ! " 

"  Because,  then,"  whispered  the  knight,  after  waiving;  the 
bystanders  from  the  spot — "  because  the  Earl's  daughter  flies 
dishonor  in  a  King's  palace,  and  her  insulter  is  the  King  !  " 

Before  the  dying  woman  could  reply,  Anne,  recovered  by 
the  cares  of  the  experienced  nurse,  suddenly  sprung  to  the 
recess,  and  kneeling  by  the  bedside,  exclaimed  wildly  : 

"  Save  me  ! — hide  me  ! — save  me  !  " 

"  Go  and  seek  the  Earl,  whose  riuht  hand  destroyed  my 
house  and  his  lawful  sovereign's  throne — go  !  1  will  live  till 


392  THE    T.AST   OF    THE   BARONS. 

he  arrives  !  "  said  the  childless  widow,  and  a  wild  gicam  of 
triumph  shot  over  her  haggard  features. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    GROUP     ROUND    THE     DEATH-BED     OF    THE     LANCASTRIAN 

WIDOW. 

THE  dawning  sun  gleamed  through  gray  clouds  upon  a  small 
troop  of  men,  armed  in  haste,  who  were  grouped  round  a  cov 
ered  litter  by  the  outer  door  of  the  Lady  Longueville's  house  ; 
while  in  the  death-chamber,  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  with  a  face 
as  pale  as  the  dying  woman's,  stood  beside  the  bed — Anne 
calmly  leaning  on  his  breast,  her  eyes  closed,  and  tears  yet 
moist  on  their  long  fringes. 

"  Ay — ay — ay  !  "  said  the  Lancastrian  noblewoman,  "  ye  men 
of  wrath  and  turbulence  should  reap  what  ye  have  sown  ! 
This  is  the  King  for  whom  ye  dethroned  the  sainted  Henry  ! 
This  the  man  for  whom  ye  poured  forth  the  blood  of  England's 
best !  Ha  !  ha  !  Look  down  from  Heaven,  my  husband,  my 
martyr-sons!  The  daughter  of  your  mightiest  foe  flies  to  this 
lonely  hearth — flies  to  the  death-bed  of  the  powerless  woman 
for  refuge  from  the  foul  usurper  whom  that  foe  placed  upon 
the  throne !  " 

"  Spare  me,"  muttered  Warwick,  in  a  low  voice,  and  between 
his  grinded  teeth.  The  room  had  been  cleared,  and  Doctor 
Godard  (the  grave  man  who  had  first  accosted  Marmaduke, 
and  who  was  the  priest  summoned  to  the  dying)  alone — save 
the  scarce-conscious  Anne  herself — witnessed  the  ghastly  and 
awful  conference. 

"  Hush,  daughter,"  said  the  man  of  peace,  lifting  the  solemn 
crucifix — "calm  thyself  to  holier  thoughts." 

The  lady  impatiently  turned  from  the  priest,  and  grasping 
the  strong  right  arm  of  Warwick  with  her  shrivelled  and  trem- 
bling fingers,  resumed,  in  a  voice  that  struggled  to  repress  the 
gasps  which  broke  its  breath  : 

"  But  thou — oh.  thou,  wilt  bear  this  indignity  !  Thou,  the 
chief  of  England's  Barons,  wilt  see  no  dishonor  in  the  rank 
love  of  the  vilest  of  England's  kings  !  Oh,  yes,  ye  Yorkists 
have  the  hearts  of  varlets — not  of  men  and  fathers  !  " 

"  By  the  symbol  from  which  thou  turnest,  woman  !  "  ex- 
claimed the  Earl,  giving  vent  to  the  fury  which  the  presence 
of  death  had  before  suppressed — "by  Him,  to  whom  morning 
and  night  I  have  knelt  in  grateful  blessing  for  the  virtuous  life 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  393 

of  this  beloved  child,  I  will  have  such  revenge  on  the  recreant 
whom  I  kinged,  as  shall  live  in  the  Rolls  of  England  till  the 
trump  of  the  Judgment  Angel  !  " 

"  Father,"  said  Anne,  startled  by  her  father's  vehemence  from 
her  half-swoon,  half-sleep — "  Father,  think  no  more  of  the 
past — take  me  to  my  mother  !  I  want  the  clasp  of  my  moth- 
er's arms  !  " 

"  Leave  us — leave  the  dying,  Sir  Earl  and  son,"  saidGodard. 
"  I  too  am  Lancastrian — I  too  would  lay  down  my  life  for 
the  holy  Henry  ;  but  I  shudder,  in  the  hour  of  death,  to  hear 
yon  pale  lips,  that  should  pray  for  pardon,  preach  to  thee  of 
revenge." 

"  Revenge  !  "  shrieked  out  the  Dame  of  Longueville,  as, 
sinking  fast  and  fast,  she  caught  the  word — "  Revenge  !  Thou 
hast  sworn  revenge  on  Edward  of  York,  Lord  Warwick — sworn 
it,  in  the  chamber  of  death — in  the  ear  of  one  who  will  carry 
that  word  to  the  hero-dead  of  a  hundred  battle-fields  !  Ha — 
the  sun  has  risen  !  Priest — Godard — thine  arms — support — 
raise — bear  me  to  the  casement !  Quick — quick  !  I  would 
see  my  King  once  more  !  Quick — quick  !  and  then — then — I 
will  hear  thee  pray  !  " 

The  priest,  half-chiding,  yet  half  in  pity,  bore  the  dying 
woman  to  the  casement.  She  motioned  to  him  to  open  it  :  he 
obeyed.  The  sun,  just  above  the  welkin,  shone  over  the  lordly 
Thames,  gilded  the  gloomy  fortress  of  the  Tower,  and  glit- 
tered upon  the  window  of  Henry's  prison. 

"  There — there  !  It  is  he — it  is  my  King  !  Hither — lord, 
rebel  Earl — hither.  Behold  your  sovereign  !  Repent,  re- 
venge !" 

With  her  livid  and  outstretched  hand,  the  Lancastrian 
pointed  to  the  huge  Wakefield  Tower.  The  Earl's  dark  eye 
beheld,  in  the  dim  distance,  a  pale  and  reverend  countenance, 
recognized  even  from  afar.  The  dying  woman  fixed  her  glaz- 
ing eyes  upon  the  wronged  and  mighty  baron,  and  suddenly 
her  arm  fell  to  her  side,  the  face  became  set  as  into  stone,  the 
last  breath  of  life  gurgled  within,  and  fled — and  still  those 
glazing  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  Earl's  hueless  face  ;  and  still 
in  his  ear,  and  echoed  by  a  thousand  passions  in  his  heart, 
thrilled  the  word  which  had  superseded  prayer,  and  in  which 
the  sinner's  soul  had  flown — REVENGE  ! 


394  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

BOOK  IX. 

THE  WANDERERS  AND  THE  EXILES. 
CHAPTER  I. 

HOW  THE  GREAT  BARON   BECOMES  AS  GREAT  A  REBEL. 

HILYARD  was  yet  asleep  in  the  chamber  assigned  to  him  as 
his  prison,  when  a  rough  grasp  shook  off  his  slumbers,  and  he 
saw  the  Earl  before  him,  with  a  countenance  so  changed  from 
its  usual  open  majesty — so  dark  and  sombre,  that  he  said,  in- 
voluntarily :  "You  send  me  to  the  doomsman — I  am  ready  !  " 

"  Hist,  man  !     Thou  hatest  Edward  of  York  ?  " 

"  An*  it  were  my  last  word — yes  !  " 

"  Give  me  thy  hand — we  are  friends  !  Stare  not  at  me  with 
those  eyes  of  wonder — ask  not  the  why  nor  wherefore  !  This 
last  night  gave  Edward  a  rebel  more  in  Richard  Nevile.  A 
steed  waits  thee  at  my  gates — ride  fast  to  young  Sir  Robert 
Welles  with  this  letter.  Bid  him  not  be  dismayed  ;  bid  him 
hold  out — for  ere  many  days  are  past,  Lord  Warwick  and  it 
may  be,  also,  the  Duke  of  Clarence  will  join  their  force  with 
his.  Mark,  I  say  not  that  I  am  for  Henry  of  Lancaster — I  say 
only  that  I  am  against  Edward  of  York.  Farewell,  and  when 
we  meet  again,  blessed  be  the  arm  that  first  cuts  its  way  to  a 
tyrant's  heart !  " 

Without  another  word,  Warwick  left  the  chamber.  Hilyard, 
at  first,  could  not  believe  his  senses  ;  but  as  he  dressed  him- 
self in  haste,  he  pondered  over  all  those  causes  of  dissension 
which  had  long  notoriously  subsisted  between  Edward  and  the 
Earl,  and  rejoiced  that  the  prophecy  he  had  long  so  shrewdly 
hazarded  was  at  last  fulfilled.  Descending  the  stairs,  he  gained 
the  gate,  where  Marmaduke  awaited  him,  while  a  groom  held 
a  stout  haquente  (as  the  common  riding-horse  was  then  called), 
whose  points  and  breeding  promised  speed  and  endurance. 

"  Mount,  Master  Robin,"  said  Marmaduke  ;  "  I  little  thought 
we  should  ever  ride  as  friends  together  !  Mount — our  way 
for  some  miles  out  of  London  is  the  same.  You  go  into  Lin- 
colnshire— I  into  the  shire  of  Hertford." 

"  And  for  the  same  purpose  ?  "  asked  Hilyard,  as  he  sprung 
on  his  horse,  and  the  two  men  rode  briskly  on. 

"  Yes  ! " 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  395 

'  Lord  Warwick  is  changed  at  last." 

'  At  last  !  " 

'  For  long  ?  " 

'  Till  death  !  " 

'  Good — I  ask  no  more !  " 

A  sound  of  hoofs  behind  made  the  franklin  turn  his  head, 
and  he  saw  a  goodly  troop,  armed  to  the  teeth,  emerge  from 
the  Earl's  house  and  follow  the  lead  of  Marmaduke. 

Meanwhile  Warwick  was  closeted  with  Montagu. 

Worldly  as  the  latter  was,  and  personally  attached  to  Ed- 
ward, he  was  still  keenly  alive  to  all  that  touched  the  honor  of 
his  house  :  and  his  indignation  at  the  deadly  insult  offered  to 
his  niece  was  even  more  loudly  expressed  than  that  of  the  fiery 
Earl. 

"  To  deem,"  he  exclaimed,  "  to  deem  Elizabeth  Woodville 
worthy  of  his  throne,  and  to  see  in  Anne  Nevile  one  only 
worthy  to  be  his  leman  !  " 

"  Ay !  "  said  the  Earl,  with  a  calmness  perfectly  terrible, 
from  its  unnatural  contrast  to  his  ordinary  heat,  when  but 
slightly  chafed  :  "  Ay  !  thou  sayest  it  !  But  be  tranquil — 
cold — cold  as  iron,  and  as  hard  !  We  must  scheme  now,  not 
storm  and  threaten — I  never  schemed  before  !  You  are  right — 
honesty  is  a  fool's  policy  !  Would  I  had  known  this  but  an 
hour  before  the  news  reached  me  !  I  have  already  dismissed 
our  friends  to  their  different  districts,  to  support  King  Ed- 
ward's cause — he  is  still  king — a  little  while  longer  king  !  Last 
night,  I  dismissed  them — last  night,  at  the  very  hour  when — 
O  God,  give  me  patience  !"  He  paused,  and  added,  in  a  low 
voice:  "Yet — yet — how  long  the  moments  are — how  long! 
Ere  the  sun  sets,  Edward,  I  trust,  will  be  in  my  power  !  " 

"How?" 

"  He  goes  to-day,  to  the  More — he  will  not  go  the  less  for 
what  hath  chanced  ;  he  will  trust  to  the  Archbishop  to  make 
his  peace  with  me — churchmen  are  not  fathers  !  Marmaduke 
Nevile  hath  my  orders — a  hundred  armed  men,  who  would 
march  against  the  fiend  himself,  if  I  said  the  word,  will  sur- 
round the  More,  and  seize  the  guest !  " 

"  But  what  then  ?  Who,  if  Edward — I  dare  not  say  the 
word — who  is  to  succeed  him  ?  " 

"  Clarence  is  the  male  heir  !  " 

"But  with  what  face  to  the  people — proclaim — " 

"There — there  it  is!"  interrupted  Warwick.  "I  have 
thought  of  that — I  have  thought  of  all  things  ;  my  mind  seems 
to  have  traversed  worlds  since  daybreak  !  True  !  all  commo- 


396  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

tion  to  be  successful  must  have  a  cause  that  men  can  under- 
stand. Nevertheless,  you,  Montagu — you  have  a  smoother 
tongue  than  I  ;  go  to  our  friends — to  those  who  hate  Edward — • 
seek  them,  sound  them  !  " 

"  And  name  to  them  Edward's  infamy  !  " 

"  'Sdeath,  dost  thou  think  it  !  Thou,  a  Monthermer  and 
Montagu  !  proclaim  to  England  the  foul  insult  to  the  hearth 
of  an  English  gentleman  and  peer  !  Feed  every  ribald  Bour- 
dour  with  song  and  roundel  of  Anne's  virgin  shame  !  How 
King  Edward  stole  to  her  room  at  the  dead  of  night,  and  wooed 
and  pressed,  and  swore,  and — God  of  Heaven,  that  this  hand 
were  on  his  throat  !  No,  brother,  no  !  there  are  some  wrongs 
we  may  not  tell — tumors  and  swellings  of  the  heart,  which  are 
eased  not  till  blood  can  flow  !  " 

During  this  conference  between  the  brothers,  Edward,  in 
his  palace,  was  seized  with  consternation  and  dismay  on  hear- 
ing that  the  Lady  Anne  could  not  be  found  in  her  chamber. 
He  sent  forthwith  to  summon  Adam  Warner  to  his  presence, 
and  learned  from  the  simple  sage,  who  concealed  nothing,  the 
mode  in  which  Anne  had  fled  from  the  Tower.  The  King 
abruptly  dismissed  Adam,  after  a  few  hearty  curses  and  vague 
threats  ;  and  awaking  to  the  necessity  of  inventing  some  plausi- 
ble story,  to  account  to  the  wonder  of  the  court  for  the  abrupt 
disappearance  of  his  guest,  he  saw  that  the  person  who  could 
best  originate  and  circulate  such  a  tale  was  the  Queen  ;  and  he 
sought  her  at  once,  with  the  resolution  to  choose  his  confidant 
in  the  connection  most  rarely  honored  by  marital  trust,  in  simi- 
lar offences.  He,  however,  so  softened  his  narrative  as  to 
leave  it  but  a  venial  error.  He  had  been  indulging  over-freely 
in  the  wine-cup  ;  he  had  walked  into  the  corridor,  for  the  re- 
freshing coolness  of  the  air  :  he  had  seen  the  figure  of  a  female 
whom  he  did  not  recognize  ;  and  a  few  gallant  words,  he  scarce 
remembered  what,  had  been  misconstrued.  On  perceiving 
whom  he  had  thus  addressed,  he  had  sought  to  soothe  the  anger 
or  alarm  of  the  Lady  Anne ;  but  still  mistaking  his  intention 
she  had  hurried  into  Warner's  chamber — he  had  followed  her 
thither — and  now  she  had  fled  the  palace.  Such  was  his  story, 
told  lightly  and  laughingly,  but  ending  with  a  grave  enumera- 
tion of  the  dangers  his  imprudence  had  incurred. 

Whatever  Elizabeth  felt,  or  however  she  might  interpret  the 
confession,  she  acted  with  her  customary  discretion  ;  affected, 
after  a  few  tender  reproaches,  to  place  implicit  credit  in  her 
lord's  account,  and  volunteered  to  prevent  all  scandal  by  the 
probable  story,  that  the  Earl,  being  prevented  from  coming  in 


f  tite  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  397 

person  for  his  daughter,  as  he  had  purposed,  by  fresh  news  of 
the  rebellion  which  might  call  him  from  London  with  the  early 
day,  had  commissioned  his  kinsman  Marmaduke  to  escort  her 
home.  The  quick  perception  of  her  sex  told  her  that,  what- 
ever license  might  have  terrified  Anne  into  so  abrupt  a  flight, 
the  haughty  Earl  would  shrink  no  less  than  Edward  himself 
from  making  public  an  insult  which  slander  could  well  distort 
into  the  dishonor  of  his  daughter  ;  and  that,  whatever  pretext 
might  be  invented,  Warwick  would  not  deign  to  contradict  it. 
And^as,  despite  Elizabeth's  hatred  to  the  Earl  and  desire  of 
permanent  breach  between  Edward  and  his  minister,  she  could 
not,  as  queen,  wife,  and  woman,  but  be  anxious  that  some 
cause  more  honorable  in  Edward,  and  less  odious  to  the 
people,  should  be  assigned  for  quarrel,  she  earnestly  recom- 
mended the  King  to  repair  at  once  to  the  More,  as  had  been 
before  arranged,  and  to  spare  no  pains,  disdain  no  expressions 
of  penitence  and  humiliation,  to  secure  the  mediation  of  the 
Archbishop.  His  mind  somewhat  relieved  by  this  interview 
and  counsel,  the  King  kissed  Elizabeth  with  affectionate  grati- 
tude, and  returned  to  his  chamber  to  prepare  for  his  departure 
to  the  Archbishop's  palace.  But  then,  remembering  that 
Adam  and  Sibyll  possessed  his  secret,  he  resolved  at  once  to 
banish  them  from  the  Tower.  For  a  moment  he  thought  of 
the  dungeons  of  his  fortress — of  the  rope  of  his  doomsman  ; 
but  his  conscience  at  that  hour  was  sore  and  vexed.  His 
fierceness  humbled  by  the  sense  of  shame,  he  shrunk  from  a 
new  crime  ;  and,  moreover,  his  strong  common-sense  assured 
him  that  the  testimony  of  a  shunned  and  abhorred  wizard 
ceased  to  be  of  weight  the  moment  it  was  deprived  of  the 
influence  it  took  from  the  protection  of  a  king.  He  gave 
orders  for  a  boat  to  be  in  readiness  by  the  gate  of  St.  Thomas, 
again  summoned  Adam  into  his  presence,  and  said  briefly  : 
"  Master  Warner,  the  London  mechanics  cry  so  loudly  against 
thine  invention,  for  lessening  labor  and  starving  the  poor,  the 
sailors  on  the  wharfs  are  so  mutinous,  at  the  thought  of  vessels 
without  rowers,  that,  as  a  good  king  is  bound,  I  yield  to  the 
voice  of  my  people.  Go  home,  then,  at  once  ;  the  Queen  dis- 
penses with  thy  fair  daughter's  service — the  damsel  accom- 
panies thee.  A  boat  awaits  ye  at  the  stairs ;  a  guard  shall 
attend  ye  to  your  house.  Think  what  has  passed  within  these 
walls  has  been  a  dream  ;  a  dream  that,  if  told,  is  deathful — if 
concealed  and  forgotten,  hath  no  portent !  " 

Without  waiting  a  reply,  the  King  called  from  the    ante- 
room one  of  his  gentlemen,  and  gave  him  special  directions  as 


398  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

to  the  departure  and  conduct  of  the  worthy  scholar  and  his 
gentle  daughter.  Edward  next  summoned  before  him  the  war- 
der of  the  gate,  learned  that  he  alone  was  privy  to  the  mode  of 
his  guest's  flight,  and  deeming  it  best  to  leave  at  large  no  com- 
mentator on  the  tale  he  had  invented,  sentenced  the  astonished 
warder  to  three  months'  solitary  imprisonment — for  appearing 
before  him  with  soiled  hosen  !  An  hour  afterwards,  the  King, 
with  a  small  though  gorgeous  retinue,  was  on  his  way  to  the 
More. 

The  Archbishop  had,  according  to  his  engagement,  as- 
sembled in  his  palace  the  more  powerful  of  the  discontented 
seigneurs  ;  and  his  eloquence  had  so  worked  upon  them,  that 
Edward  beheld,  on  entering  the  hall,  only  countenances  of 
cheerful  loyalty  and  respectful  welcome.  After  the  first  greet- 
ings, the  prelate,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  day,  con- 
ducted Edward  into  a  chamber,  that  he  might  refresh  himself 
with  a  brief  rest  and  the  bath,  previous  to  the  banquet. 

Edward  seized  the  occasion,  and  told  his  tale  ;  but,  however 
softened,  enough  was  left  to  create  the  liveliest  dismay  in  his 
listener.  The  lofty  scaffolding  of  hope,  upon  which  the  am- 
bitious prelate  was  to  mount  to  the  papal  throne,  seemed  to 
crumble  into  the  dust.  The  King  and  the  Earl  were  equally 
necessary  to  the  schemes  of  George  Nevile.  He  chid  the 
royal  layman  with  more  than  priestly  unction  for  his  offence  ; 
but  Edward  so  humbly  confessed  his  fault,  that  the  prelate  at 
length  relaxed  his  brow,  and  promised  to  convey  his  penitent 
assurances  to  the  Earl. 

"  Not  an  hour  should  be  lost,"  he  said  ;  "  the  only  one  who 
can  soothe  his  wrath  is  your  Highness's  mother,  our  noble 
kinswoman.  Permit  me  to  dispatch  to  her  Grace  a  letter, 
praying  her  to  seek  the  Earl,  while  I  write  by  the  same  courier 
to  himself." 

"  Be  it  all  as  you  will,"  said  Edward,  doffing  his  surcoat,  and 
dipping  his  hands  in  a  perfumed  ewer,  "  I  shall  not  know  rest 
till  I  have  knelt  to  the  Lady  Anne,  and  won  her  pardon." 

The  prelate  retired,  and  scarcely  had  he  left  the  room  when 
Sir  John  Ratcliffe,*  one  of  the  King's  retinue,  and  in  waiting 
on  his  person,  entered  the  chamber,  pale  and  trembling. 

"  My  liege,"  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  "  I  fear  some  deadly 
treason  awaits  you.  I  have  seen,  amongst  the  trees  below  this 

*  Afterwards  Lord  Fitzwalter.  Sec  Lingard,  note,  vol.  in.,  p.  507,  quarto  edition,  for 
the  proper  date  to  be  assigned  to  this  royal  visit  to  the  More — a  date  we  have  here 
adopted — not  ns  Sharon  Turner  and  others  place,  viz  (upon  the  authority  of  Hearne's 
Fragm.,  302,  which  subsequent  events  disprove),  after  the  open  rebellion  »f  Warwick,  but 
just  be/art  it— that  is,  not  after  Easter,  but  before  Lent. 


THE   LAST    OF   THE   BARONS.  399 

tower,  the  gleam  of  steel  ;  I  have  crept  through  the  foliage, 
and  counted  no  less  than  a  hundred  armed  men — their  leader 
is  Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile.  Earl  Warwick's  kinsman  !  " 

"Ha  !  "  muttered  the  King,  and  his  bold  face  fell,  "comes 
the  Earl's  revenge  so  soon  ?  " 

"  And,"  continued  Ratcliffe,  "  I  overheard  Sir  Marmaduke 
say,  '  The  door  of  the  Garden  Tower  is  unguarded — wait  the 
signal ! '  Fly,  my  liege  !  Hark  !  even  now,  I  hear  the  rattling 
of  arms  !  " 

The  King  stole  to  the  casement — the  day  was  closing ;  the 
foliage  grew  thick  and  dark  around  the  wall  ;  he  saw  an  armed 
man  emerge  from  the  shade — a  second,  and  a  third. 

"  You  are  right,  Ratcliffe  !     Flight — but  how  ?  " 

''  This  way,  my  liege.  By  the  passage  I  entered,  a  stair 
•winds  to  a  door  on  the  inner  court ;  there,  I  have  already  a 
steed  in  waiting.  Deign,  for  precaution,  to  use  my  hat  and 
manteline." 

The  King  hastily  adopted  the  suggestion,  followed  the  noise- 
less steps  of  Ratcliffe,  gained  the  door,  sprung  on  his  steed, 
and  dashing  right  through  a  crowd  assembled  by  the  gate,  gal- 
loped alone  and  fast,  untracked  by  human  enemy,  but  goaded 
by  the  foe  that  mounts  the  rider's  steed — over  field,  over  fell, 
over  dyke,  through  hedge,  and  in  the  dead  of  night  reined  in 
at  last,  before  the  royal  towers  of  Windsor. 


CHAPTER  II. 

MANY   THINGS    BRIEFLY    TOLD. 

THE  events  that  followed  the  King's  escape  were  rapid  and 
startling.  The  barons  assembled  at  the  More,  enraged  at 
Edward's  seeming  distrust  of  them,  separated  in  loud  anger. 
The  Archbishop  learned  the  cause  from  one  of  his  servitors, 
who  detected  Mannaduke's  ambush,  but  he  was  too  wary  to 
make  known  a  circumstance  suspicious  to  himself.  He  flew  to 
London,  and  engaged  the  mediation  of  the  Duchess  of  York 
to  assist  his  own.* 

The  Earl  received  their  joint  overtures  with  stern  and  omi- 
nous coldness,  and  abruptly  repaired  to  Warwick,  taking  with 
him  the  Lady  Anne.  There  he  was  joined,  the  same  day,  by 
the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Clarence. 

The  Lincolnshire  rebellion  gained  head  :  Edward  made  a 
dexterous  feint  in  calling,  by  public  commission,  upon  Clar- 

*  Lingard.     See  for  the  dates,  Fabyan,  657. 


400  THE    LAST    OF    THE    KARONS. 

ence  and  Warwick  to  aid  in  dispersing  it ;  if  they  refused,  the 
odium  of  first  aggression  would  seemingly  rest  with  them. 
Clarence,  more  induced  by  personal  ambition  than  sympathy 
with  Warwick's  wrong,  incensed  by  his  brother's  recent  slights, 
looking  to  Edward's  resignation  and  his  own  consequent 
accession  to  the  throne,  and  inflamed  by  the  ambition  and 
pride  of  a  wife  whom  he  at  once  feared  and  idolized,  went 
hand  in  heart  with  the  Earl  ;  but  not  one  lord  and  captain 
whom  Montagu  had  sounded  lent  favor  to  the  deposition  of 
one  brother  for  the  advancement  of  the  next.  Clarence, 
though  popular,  was  too  young  to  be  respected  ;  many  there 
were  who  would  rather  have  supported  the  Earl,  if  an  aspirant 
to  the  throne  ;  but  that  choice  forbidden  by  the  Earl  himself, 
there  could  be  but  two  parties  in  England — the  one  for 
Edward  IV.,  the  other  for  Henry  VI. 

Lord  Montagu  had  repaired  to  Warwick  Castle,  to  communi- 
cate in  person  this  result  of  his  diplomacy.  The  Earl,  whose 
manner  was  completely  changed,  no  longer  frank  and  hearty, 
but  close  and  sinister,  listened  in  gloomy  silence. 

"  And  now,"  said  Montagu,  with  the  generous  emotion  of  a 
man  whose  nobler  nature  was  stirred  deeply,  "  if  you  resolve 
on  war  with  Edward,  I  am  willing  to  renounce  my  own  ambi- 
tion, the  hand  of  a  king's  daughter  for  my  son,  so  that  I  may 
avenge  the  honor  of  our  common  name.  I  confess  that  I  have 
so  loved  Edward  that  I  would  fain  pray  you  to  pause,  did  I 
not  distrust  myself,  lest  in  such  delay  his  craft  should  charm 
me  back  to  the  old  affection.  Nathless,  to  your  arm,  and  to 
your  great  soul,  I  have  owed  all,  and  if  you  are  resolved  to 
strike  the  blow,  I  am  ready  to  share  the  hazard." 

The  Earl  turned  away  his  face,  and  wrung  his  brother's 
hand. 

"  Our  father,  methinks,  hears  thee  from  his  grave  ! "  said 
he  solemnly,  and  there  was  a  long  pause.  At  length  Warwick 
resumed  :  "  Return  to  London ;  seem  to  take  no  share  in  my 
actions,  whatever  they  be  ;  if  I  fail,  why  drag  thee  into  my 
ruin  ?  And  yet,  trust  me,  I  am  rash  and  fierce  no  more.  He 
who  sets  his  heart  on  a  great  object  suddenly  becomes  wise. 
When  a  throne  is  in  the  dust — when  from  St.  Paul's  cross  a 
voice  goes  forth,  to  Carlisle  and  the  Land's  End,  proclaiming 
that  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Fourth  is  past  and  gone — then, 
Montagu,  I  claim  thy  promise  of  aid  and  fellowship — not 
before  !  " 

Meanwhile,  the  King  eager  to  dispel  thought  in  action,  rushed 
in  person  against  the  rebellious  forces.  Stung  by  fear  into 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  46! 

cruelty,  he  beheaded,  against  all  kingly  faith,  his  hostages, 
Lord  Welles  and  Sir  Thomas  Dymoke,  summoned  Sir  Robert 
Welles,  the  leader  of  the  revolt,  to  surrender  ;  received  for 
answer,  "  that  Sir  Robert  Welles  would  not  trust  the  perfidy  of 
the  man  who  had  murdered  his  father  ! " — pushed  on  to 
Erpingham,  defeated  the  rebels  in  a  singal  battle,  and  crowned 
his  victory  by  a  series  of  ruthless  cruelties — committed  to  the 
fierce  and  learned  Earl  of  Worcester,  "  Butcher  of  England."  * 
With  the  prompt  vigor  and  superb  generalship  which  Edward 
ever  displayed  in  war,  he  then  cut  his  gory  way  to  the  force 
which  Clarence  and  Warwick  (though  their  hostility  was  still 
undeclared)  had  levied,  with  the  intent  to  join  the  defeated 
rebels.  He  sent  his  herald,  Garter  King-at-arms,  to  summon 
the  Earl  and  the  Duke  to  appear  before  him  within  a  certain 
day.  The  time  expired  ;  he  proclaimed  them  traitors,  and 
offered  rewards  for  their  apprehension  !  f 

So  sudden  had  been  Warwick's  defection — so  rapid  the 
King's  movements — that  the  Earl  had  not  time  to  mature  his 
resources,  assemble  his  vassals,  consolidate  his  schemes.  His 
very  preparations,  upon  the  night  on  which  Edward  had  repaid 
his  services  by  such  hideous  ingratitude,  had  manned  the  coun- 
try with  armies  against  himself.  Girt  but  with  a  scanty  force 
collected  in  haste  (and  which  consisted  merely  of  his  retainers, 
in  the  single  shire  of  Warwick),  the  march  of  Edward  cut  him 
off  from  the  counties  in  which  his  name  was  held  most  dear — 
in  which  his  trumpet  could  raise  up  hosts.  He  was  disap- 
pointed in  the  aid  he  had  expected  from  his  powerful  but  self- 
interested  brother-in-law,  Lord  Stanley.  Revenge  had  be- 
come more  dear  to  him  than  life :  life  must  not  be  hazarded, 
lest  revenge  be  lost.  On  still  marched  the  King  ;  and  the  day 

*  Stowe.  Warkworth  Chronicle — Cont.  Croyl.  Lord  Worcester  ordered  Clapham  (a 
squire  to  Lord  Warwick)  and  nineteen  others,  gentlemen  and  yeomen,  to  be  imfaled,  and 
from  the  horror  the  spectacle  inspired,  and  the  universal  odium  it  attached  to  Worcester, 
it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  unhappy  men  were  still  sensible  to  the  agony  of  this  infliction, 
though  they  appear  first  to  have  been  drawn,  and  partially  hanged— outrage  confined  only 
to  the  dead  bodies  of  rebels  being  too  common  at  that  day  to  have  excited  the  indignation 
which  attended  the  sentence  Worcester  passed  on  his  victims.  It  is  in  vain  that  some 
writers  would  seek  to  cleanse  the  memory  of  this  learned  nobleman  from  the  stain  of 
cruelty,  by  rhetorical  remarks  on  the  improbability  that  a  cultivator  of  letters  should  be  of 
a  ruthless  disposition.  The  general  philosophy  of  this  defence  is  erroneous.  In  ignorant 
ages,  a  man  of  superior  acquirements  is  not  necessarily  made  humane  by  the  cultivation  of 
his  intelltct  ;  on  the  contrary,  he  too  often  learns  to  look  upon  the  uneducated  herd  as 
things  of  another  clay.  Of  this  truth  all  history  is  pregnant— witness' the  accomplished 
tyrants  of  Greece,  the  profound  and  cruel  intellect  of  the  Italian  Borgias.  Richard  III.  and 
Henry  VIII.  were  both  highly  educated  for  their  age.  But  in  the  case  of  Tiptoft,  Lord 
Worcester,  the  evidence  of  his  cruelty  is  no  less  incontestable  than  that  which  proves  his 
learning — the  Crpyland  historian  alone  is  unimpeachable.  Worcester's  popular  name  of 
"  the  Butcher  "  is  sufficient  testimony  in  itself.  The  people  are  often  mistaken,  to  be 
sure,  but  can  scarcely  be  so  upon  the  one  point — whether  a  man  who  has  sate  in  judgment 
on  themselves  be  merciful  or  cruel. 

t  One  thousand  pounds  in  money,  or  one  hundred  pounds  a  year  in  land  ;  an  immense 
reward  for  that  day. 


403  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

that  his  troops  entered  Exeter,  Warwick,  the  females  of  his 
family,  with  Clarence,  and  a  small  but  armed  retinue,  took 
ship  from  Dartmouth,  sailed  for  Calais  (before  which  town, 
while  at  anchor,  Isabel  was  confined  of  her  first-born) — to  the 
Earl's  rage  and  dismay,  his  deputy  Vauclerc  fired  upon  his 
ships.  Warwick  then  steered  on  towards  Normandy,  captured 
some  Flemish  vessels  by  the  way,  in  token  of  defiance  to  the 
Earl's  old  Burgundian  foe,  and  landed  at  Harfleur,  where  he 
and  his  companions  were  received  with  royal  honors  by  the 
Admiral  of  France,  and  finally  took  their  ways  to  the  court  of 
Louis  XI  ,  at  Amboise. 

"  The  danger  is  past  forever  ! "  said  King  Edward,  as  the 
wine  sparkled  in  his  goblet.  "  Rebellion  hath  lust  its  head — 
and  now,  indeed,  and  for  the  first  time  a  monarch,  I  reign 
alone  ! "  * 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE    PLOT    OF   THE    HOSTELRY — THE  MAID    AND    THE   SCHOLAR 
IN    THEIR    HOME. 

THE  country  was  still  disturbed,  and  the  adherents,  whether 
of  Henry  or  the  Earl,  still  ro>e  in  many  an  outbreak,  though 
prevented  from  swelling  into  one  common  army  by  the  extra- 
ordinary vigor  not  only  of  Edward,  but  of  Gloucester  and 
Hastings,  when  one  morning,  just  after  the  events  thus  rapidly 
related,  the  hostelry  of  Master  Bancroft,  in  the  suburban  parish 
of  Marybone,  rejoiced  in  a  motley  crowd  of  customers  and 
topers. 

Some  half-score  soldiers,  returned  in  triumph  from  the  royal 
camp,  sate  round  a  table  placed  agreeably  enough  in  the  deep 

*  Before  leaving  England,  Warwick  and  Clarence  are  generally  said  to  have  fallen  in 
with  Anthony  Wood  vifle  and  Lord  Audley,  and  ordered  them  to  execution;  from  which 
they  were  saved  by  a  Dorsetshire  gentleman.  Carte,  who,  though  his  history  is  not  with- 
out great  mistakes,  is  well  worth  reading  by  those  whom  the  character  of  Lord  Warwick 
may  interest,  says,  that  the  Earl  had  "  too  much  magnanimity  to  put  them  to  death 
immediately,  according  to  the  common  practice  of  the  times,  and  only  imprisoned  them  in 
the  castle  of  Wardour,  from  whence  they  were  soon  rescued  by  John  Thornhill,  a  gentle- 
man of  Dorsetshire."  The  whole  of  this  story  is,  however,  absolutely  contradicted  by  the 
WarkworthChronicle,(p.  q,  edited  by  Mr.  Halliwell)  according  to  which  authority  Anthony 
Woodville  was  at  that  time  commanding  a  fleet  upon  the  Channel,  which  waylaid  Warwick 
on  his  voyatre;  but  the  success  therein  attributed  to  the  gallant  Anthony,  in  dispersing  or 
seizing  all  the  carl's  ships,  save  the  one  that  bore  the  earl  himself  and  his  family,  is  proved 
to  be  purely  fabulous,  by  the  earl's  well-attested  capture  of  the  Flemish  vessels,  as  he 
passed  from  Calais  to  the  coasts  of  Normandy — an  exploit  he  could  never  have  performed 
with  a  single  vessel  of  his  own.  It  is  very  probable  that  the  story  of  Anthony  Woodville's 
capture  and  peril  at  this  time  originates  in  a  misadventure  many  years  before,  and  recorded 
in  the  Paston  letters,  as  well  as  in  the  Chronicles.  In  the  year  1459,  Anthony  Woodville 
and  his  father,  Lord  Rivers  (then  zealous  Lancastrians)  really  did  fill  into  the  hands  of  the 
Earl  of  March  (Edward  IV.),  Warwick  and  Salisbury,  and  got  off  with  a  sound  "  rating  " 
upon  the  rude  language  which  such  "  knaves' sons  "  and  "  little  squires  "  had  held  to 
those  "  who  were  of  king's  blood." 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  403 

recess  made  by  the  large  jutting  lattice  ;  with  them  were 
mingled  about  as  many  women,  strangely  and  gaudily  clad. 
These  last  were  all  young  ;  one  or  two,  indeed,  little  advanced 
from  childhood.  But  there  was  no  expression  of  youth  in 
their  hard,  sinister  features  :  coarse  paint  supplied  the  place  of 
bloom  ;  the  very  youngest  had  a  wrinkle  on  her  brow  ;  their 
forms  wanted  the  round  and  supple  grace  of  early  years. 
Living  principally  in  the  open  air,  trained  from  infancy  to  feats 
•of  activity,  their  muscles  were  sharp  and  prominent — their 
aspects  had  something  of  masculine  audacity  and  rudeness  ; 
health  itself  seemed  in  them  more  loathsome  than  disease. 
Upon  those  faces  of  bronze,  vice  had  set  its  ineffable,  unmis- 
taken  seal.  To  those  eyes  never  had  sprung  the  tears  of  com- 
passion or  woman's  gentle  sorrow  ;  on  those  brows  never  had 
flushed  the  glow  of  modest  shame  ;  their  very  voices  half- 
belied  their  sex — harsh,  and  deep,  and  hoarse — their  laughter 
loud  and  dissonant.  Some  amongst  them  were  not  destitute  of 
a  certain  beauty,  but  it  was  a  beauty  of  feature  with  a  common 
hideousness  of  expression — an  expression  at  once  cunning,  bold, 
callous,  and  licentious.  Womanless,  through  the  worst  vices 
of  woman  ;  passionless,  through  the  premature  waste  of  passion  ; 
they  stood  between  the  sexes  like  foul  and  monstrous  anomalies, 
made  up  and  fashioned  from  the  rank  depravities  of  both. 
These  creatures  seemed  to  have  newly  arrived  from  some  long 
wayfaring  ;  their  shoes  and  the  hems  of  their  robes  were 
covered  with  dust  and  mire  ;  their  faces  were  heated,  and  the 
veins  in  their  bare,  sinewy,  sunburned  arms  were  swollen  by 
fatigue.  Each  had  beside  her  on  the  floor  a  timbrel  ;  each 
wore  at  her  girdle  a  long  knife  in  its  sheath  ;  well  that  the 
sheaths  hid  the  blades,  for  not  one — not  even  that  which  yon 
cold-eyed  child  of  fifteen  wore — but  had  on  its  steel  the  dark 
stain  of  human  blood  ! 

The  presence  of  soldiers  fresh  from  the  scene  of  action  had 
naturally  brought  into  the  hostelry  several  of  the  idle  gossips 
of  the  suburb,  and  these  stood  round  the  table,  drinking  into 
their  large  ears  the  boasting  narratives  of  the  soldiers.  At  a 
small  table,  apart  from  the  revellers,  but  evidently  listening 
with  attention  to  all  the  news  of  the  hour,  sate  a  friar,  gravely 
discussing  a  mighty  tankard  of  huffcap,  and  ever  and  anon,  as 
he  lifted  his  head  for  the  purpose  of  drinking,  glancing  a 
wanton  eye  at  one  of  the  tymbesteres. 

"  But  an'  you  had  seen,"  said  a  trooper,  who  was  the  mouth- 
piece of  his  comrades — ''  an'  you  had  seen  the  raptrils  run 
when  King  Edward  himself  led  the  charge  !  Marry,  it  wag 


404  'I'HE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

like  a  cat  in  a  rabbit  burrow  !  Easy  to  see,  I  trow,  that  Earl 
Warwick  was  not  amongst  them  !  His  men,  at  least,  fight  like 
devils !  " 

"  But  there  was  one  tall  fellow,"  said  a  soldier,  setting  down 
his  tankard,  "  who  made  a  good  fight  and  dour,  and  but  for 
me  and  my  comrades,  would  have  cut  his  way  to  the  King." 

"Ay — ay — true!  We  saved  his  Highness,  and  ought  to 
have  been  knighted — but  there's  no  gratitude  nowadays  ! ' 

"  And  who  was  this  doughty  warrior?"  asked  one  of  the  by- 
standers, who  secretly  favored  the  rebellion. 

"  Why,  it  was  said  that  he  was  Robin  of  Redesdale.  He 
who  fought  my  Lord  Montagu  off  York." 

"  Our  Robin  !  "  exclajmed  several  voices.  "  Ay,  he  was 
ever  a  brave  fellow — poor  Robin  !  " 

" '  Your  Robin,'  and  '  poor  Robin,'  varlets  !  "  cried  the 
principal  trooper.  "  Have  a  care  !  What  do  you  mean  by 
your  Robin?" 

"  Marry,  sir  soldier,"  quoth  a  butcher,  scratching  his  head, 
and  in  a  humble  voice,  ''craving  your  pardon,  and  the  King's, 
this  Master  Robin  sojourned  a  short  time  in  this  hamlet,  and 
was  a  kind  neighbor,  and  mighty  glib  of  the  tongue.  Don't  ye 
mind,  neighbors,"  he  added  rapidly,  eager  to  change  the  con- 
versation, "  how  he  made  us  leave  off  when  we  were  just  about 
burning  Adam  Warner,  the  old  nigromancer,  in  his  den, 
yonder  ?  Who  else  could  have  done  that  ?  But  an'  we  had 
known  Robin  had  been  a  rebel  to  sweet  King  Edward,  we'd 
have  joasted  him  along  with  the  wizard  !  " 

One  of  the  timbrel  girls,  the  leader  of  the  choir,  her  arm 
round  a  soldier's  neck,  looked  up  at  the  last  speech,  and  her 
eye  followed  the  gesture  of  the  butcher,  as  he  pointed  through 
the  open  lattice  to  the  sombre,  ruinous  abode  of  Adam  Warner. 

"  Was  that  the  house  ye  would  have  burned  ? "  she  asked 
abruptly. 

"  Yes  ;  but  Robin  told  us  the  King  would  hang  those  who 
took  on  them  the  King's  blessed  privilege  of  burning  nigro- 
mancers  ;  and,  sure  enough,  old  Adam  Warner  was  advanced 
to  be  wizard-in-chief  to  the  King's  own  Highness  a  week  or  two 
afterwards." 

The  friar  had  made  a  slight  movement  at  the  name  of  Warner  ; 
he  now  pushed  his  stool  nearer  to  the  principal  group,  and 
drew  his  hood  completely  over  his  countenance. 

"  Yea  !  "  exclaimed  the  mechanic,  whose  son  had  been  the 
innocent  cause  of  the  memorable  siege  to  poor  Adam's  dilapi- 
dated fortress,  related  in  the  first  book  of  this  narrative — "  yea  ; 


THE   LAST   OF    THE   BARONS.  405 

and  what  did  he  when  there  ?  Did  he  not  devise  a  horrible 
engine  for  the  destruction  of  the  poor — an  engine  that  was  to 
do  all  the  work  in  England  by  the  devil's  help  ?  So  that  if  a 
gentleman  wanted  a  coat  of  mail,  or  a  cloth  tunic — if  his  dame 
needed  a  Norwich  worsted — if  a  yeoman  lacked  a  plough  or  a 
wagon,  or  his  good  wife  a  pot  or  a  kettle,  they  were  to  go,  not 
to  the  armorer,  and  the  draper,  and  the  tailor,  and  the  weaver, 
and  the  wheelwright,  and  the  blacksmith,  but,  hey  presto  ! 
Master  Warner  set  his  imps  a  churning,  and  turned  ye  out 
mail  and  tunic,  worsted  and  wagon,  kettle  and  pot,  spick  and 
span  new,  from  his  brewage  of  vapor  and  sea-coal  ?  Oh,  have 
I  not  heard  enough  of  the  sorcerer  from  my  brother,  who 
works  in  the  Chepe  for  Master  Stokton,  the  mercer  ! — and 
Master  Stokton  was  one  of  the  worshipful  deputies  to  whom 
the  old  nigromancer  had  the  front  to  boast  his  devices." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  the  friar  suddenly. 

"Yes,  reverend  father,  it  is  true,"  said  the  mechanic,  doffing 
his  cap,  and  inclining  his  swarthy  face  to  this  unexpected  wit- 
ness of  his  veracity.  A  murmur  of  wrath  and  hatred  was 
heard  amongst  the  bystanders.  The  soldiers  indifferently 
turned  to  their  female  companions.  There  was  a  brief  silence  ; 
and,  involuntarily,  the  gossips  stretched  over  the  table  to  catch 
sight  of  the  house  of  so  demoniac  an  oppressor  of  the  poor. 

"See,"  said  the  baker,  "  the  smoke  still  curls  from  the  roof 
top  !  I  heard  he  had  come  back.  Old  Madge,  his  handmaid, 
has  bought  simnel  cakes  of  me  the  last  week  or  so  ;  nothing 
less  than  the  finest  wheat  serves  him  now,  I  trow.  However, 
right's  right,  and — " 

"  Come  back !  "  cried  the  fierce  mechanic,  "  the  owl  hath 
kept  close  in  his  roost  !  An  '  it  were  not  for  the  King's  favor, 
I  would  soon  see  how  the  wizard  liked  to  have  fire  and  water 
brought  to  bear  against  himself  !  " 

"  Sit  down,  sweetheart,"  whispered  one  of  the  young  tymbes- 
teres  to  the  last  speaker — 

"  Come  kiss  me,  my  darling, 
Warm  kisses  I  trade  for — " 

"  Avaunt !  "  quoth  the  mechanic  gruffly,  and  shaking  off 
the  seductive  arm  of  the  tymbestere  :  "  Avaunt  !  I  have  neither 
liefe  nor  halfpence  for  thee  and  thine.  Out  on  thee — a  child 
of  thy  years  !  A  rope's  end  to  thy  back  were  a  friend's  best 
kindness  !  " 

The  girl's  eyes  sparkled,  she  instinctively  put  her  hand  to 
her  knife  ;  then  turning  to  a  soldier  by  her  side,  she  said  ' 
"  Hear  you  that,  and  sit  still?" 


406  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"Thunder  and  wounds  !  "  growled  the  soldier,  thus  appealed 
to — "  more  respect  to  the  sex,  knave ;  if  I  don't  break  thy 
fool's  costard  with  my  sword-hilt,  it  is  only  because  Red  Grisell 
can  take  care  of  herself  against  twenty  such  lozels  as  thou. 
These  honest  girls  have  been  to  the  wars  with  us  ;  King 
Edward  grudges  no  man  his  jolly  fere.  Speak  up  for  thyself, 
Grisell  !  How  many  tall  fellows  didst  thou  put  out  of  their 
pain,  after  the  battle  of  Losecote  ?  " 

"  Only  five,  Hal,  "  replied  the  cold-eyed  girl,  and  showing 
her  glittering  teeth  with  the  grin  of  a  young  tigress  ;  "  but  one 
was  a  captain.  I  shall  do  better  next  time  ;  it  was  my  first 
battle,  thou  knovvest  !  " 

The  more  timid  of  the  bystanders  exchanged  a  glance  of 
horror,  and  drew  back.  The  mechanic  resumed  sullenly  : 

"  I  seek  no  quarrel  with  lass  or  lover.  I  am  a  plain,  blunt 
man,  with  a  wife  and  children,  who  are  dear  to  me  ;  and  if  I 
have  a  grudge  to  the  nigromancer,  it  is  because  he  glamoured 
my  poor  boy  Tim.  See  !  "  and  he  caught  up  a  blue-eyed,  hand- 
some boy,  who  had  been  clinging  to  his  side,  and  baring  the 
child's  arm,  showed  it  to  the  spectators  :  there  was  a  large  scar 
on  the  limb,  and  it  was  shrunk  and  withered. 

"  It  was  my  own  fault,"  said  the  little  fellow  deprecatingly. 

The  affectionate  father  silenced  the  sufferer  with  a  cuff  on 
the  cheek,  and  resumed  :  "Ye  note,  neighbors,  the  day  when 
the  foul  wizard  took  this  little  one  in  his  arms  :  well,  three 
weeks  afterwards — that  very  day  three  weeks — as  he  was 
standing  like  a  lamb  by  the  fire,  the  good  wife's  caldron 
seethed  over,  without  reason  or  rhyme,  and  scalded  his  arm 
till  it  rivelled  up  like  a  leaf  in  November  ;  and  if  that  is 
not  glamour,  why  have  we  laws  against  witchcraft  ?" 

''  True — true  !  "  groaned  the  chorus. 

The  boy,  who  had  borne  his  father's  blow  without  a  murmur, 
now  again  attempted  remonstrance.  "  The  hot  water  went 
over  the  gray  cat,  too,  but  Master  Warner  never  bewitched  her, 
daddy." 

"He  takes  his  part  !  You  hear  the  daff  laddy  ?  He  takes 
the  old  nigromancer's  part — a  sure  sign  of  the  witchcraft  ;  but 
I'll  leather  it  out  of  thee,  I  will! "  and  the  mechanic  a^ain 
raided  his  weighty  arm.  The  child  did  not  this  time  awau  the 
blow  ;  he  dodged  under  the  butcher's  apron,  gained  the  door, 
and  disappeared.  "  And  he  teaches  our  own  children  to  fly  in 
our  faces  !  "  said  the  father,  in  a  kind  of  whimper. 

The  neighbors  sighed,  in  commiseration. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  fiercer  tone,  grinding  his  teeth, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  407 

and  shaking  his  clenched  fist  towards  Adam  Warner's  melan- 
choly house,  "  I  say  again,  if  the  King  did  not  protect  the  vile 
sorcerer,  I* would  free  the  land  from  his  devilries,  ere  his  black 
master  could  come  to  his  help." 

"The  King  cares  not  a  straw  for  Master  Warner  or  his  inven- 
tions, my  son,"  said  a  rough,  loud  voice.  All  turned  and  saw  the 
friar  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  circle.  "  Know  ye  not,  my 
children,  that  the  King  sent  the  wretch  neck  and  crop  out  of 
the  palace,  for  having  bewitched  the  Earl  of  Warwick  and  his 
Grace  the  Lord  Clarence,  so  that  they  turned  unnaturally 
against  their  own  kinsman,  his  Highness.  But  '  Manus  malo- 
rum  suos  bonos  breaket' — that  is  to  say — the  fists  of  wicked 
men  only  whack  their  own  bones.  Ye  have  all  heard  tell  of 
Friar  Bungey,  my  children  ?" 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  answered  two  or  three  in  a  breath — "  a  wizard, 
it's  true,  and  a  mighty  one  ;  but  he  never  did  harm  to  the  poor, 
though  they  do  say  he  made  a  quaint  image  of  the  Earl,  and — " 

"Tut,  tut!"  interrupted  the  friar;  "all  Bungey  did  was 
to  try  to  disenchant  the  Lord  Warwick,  whom  yon  miscreant 
had  spellbound.  Poor  Bungey  !  he  is  a  friend  to  the  people  ; 
and  when  he  found  that  Master  Adam  was  making  a  device  for 
their  ruin,  he  spared  no  toil,  I  assure  ye,  to  frustrate  the  iniquity. 
Oh,  how  he  fasted  and  watched  !  Oh,  how  many  a  time  he 
fought,  tooth  and  nail,  with  the  devil  in  person,  to  get  at  the 
infernal  invention  !  F.or  if  he  had  that  invention  once  in  his 
hands,  he  could  turn  it  to  good  account,  I  can  promise  ye  ; 
and  give  ye  rain  for  the  green  blade,  and  sun  for  the  ripe  sheaf. 
But  the  fiend  got  the  better  at  first  ;  and  King  Edward,  be- 
witched, himself  for  the  moment,  would  have  hanged  Friar 
Bungey  for  crossing  old  Adam,  if  he  had  not  called  three  times, 
in  a  loud  voice,  '  Presto  pepranxenon  !'  changed  himself  into 
a  bird,  and  flown  out  of  the  window.  As  soon  as  Master  Adam 
Warner  found  the  field  clear  to  himself,  he  employed  his  daugh- 
ter to  bewitch  the  Lord  Hastings  ;  he  set  brother  against 
brother,  and  made  the  King  and  Lord  George  fall  to  logger- 
heads ;  he  stirred  up  the  rebellion,  and  where  he  would  have 
stopped  the  foul  fiend  only  knows,  if  your  friend,  Friar  Bungey, 
who,  though  a  wizard  as  you  say,  is  only  so  for  your  benefit 
(and  a  holy  priest  into  the  bargain),  had  not,  by  aid  of  a  good 
spirit,  whom  he  conjured  up  in  the  Island  of  Tartary,  disen- 
chanted the  King,  and  made  him  see  in  a  dream  what  the  villa- 
nous  Warner  was  devising  against  his  crown  and  his  people  ; 
whereon  his  Highness  sent  Master  Warner  and  his  daughter 
back  to  their  roost,  and,  helped  by  Friar  Bungey,  beat  his 


408  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 


out  of  the  kingdom.  So,  if  ye  have  a  mind  to  save 
your  children  from  mischief  and  malice,  ye  may  sot  to  work 
with  i;ood  heart,  always  provided  that  ye  touch  not  old  Adam's 
iron  invention.  Woe  betide  ye,  if  ye  think  to  destroy  that! 
Bring  it  safe  to  Friar  Bungey,  whom  ye  will  find  returned  to 
the  palace,  and  journeymen's  wages  will  be  a  penny  a  day 
higher  for  the  next  ten  years  to  come  !  "  With  these  words  the 
friar  threw  down  his  reckoning,  and  moved  majestically  to  the 
door. 

"  An"  I  might  trust  you  ?  "  said  Tim's  father,  laying  hold  of 
the  friar's  serge. 

"Ye  may,  ye  may!"  cried  the  leader  of  the  tymbesteres, 
starting  up  from  the  lap  of  her  soldier,  "  for  it  is  Friar  Bungey 
himself  !  " 

A  movement  of  astonishment  and  terror  was  universal. 

"  Friar  Bungey  himself  !  "  repeated  the  burly  impostor 
"  Right,  lassie,  right  ;  and  he  now  goes  to  the  palace  of  the 
Tower,  to  mutter  good  spells  in  King  Edward's  ear  —  spells  to 
defeat  the  malignant  ones,  and  to  lower  the  price  of  beer. 
Wax  wobiscum  !  " 

With  that  salutation,  more  benevolent  than  accurate,  the  friar 
vanished  from  the  room  ;  the  chief  of  the  tymbesteres  leaped 
lightly  on  the  table,  put  one  foot  on  the  soldier's  shoulder,  and 
sprang  through  the  open  lattice.  She  found  the  friar  in  the 
act  of  mounting  a  sturdy  mule,  which  had  been  tied  to  a  post 
by  the  door. 

"  Fie,  Graul  Skellet  !  Fie,  Graul  !  "  said  the  conjurer. 
"  Respect  for  my  serge.  We  must  not  be  noted  together  out 
of  door  in  the  daylight.  There's  a  groat  for  thee.  Vade,  exe- 
crabilis  —  that  is,  good-day  to  thee,  pretty  rogue  !  " 

"A  word,  friar,  a  word.  Wouldst  thou  have  the  old  man 
burned,  drowned,  or  torn  piecemeal  !  He  hath  a  daughter, 
too,  who  once  sought  to  mar  our  trade  with  her  gittern  ;  a 
daughter,  then  in  a  kirtle  that  I  would  not  .have  nimmed  from 
a  hedge,  but  whom  I  last  saw  in  sarcenet  and  lawn,  with  a  great 
lord  for  her  fere."  The  tymbestere's  eyes  shone  with  malig- 
nant envy,  as  she  added  :  "  Graul  Skellet  loves  not  to  see  those 
who  have  worn  worsted  and  say  walk  in  sarcenet  and  lawn  ! 
Graul  Skellet  loves  not  wenches  who  have  lords  for  their  feres, 
and  yet  who  shrink  from  Graul  and  her  sisters  as  the  sound 
from  the  leper." 

"  Fegs,"  answered  the  friar  impatiently,  "  I  know  nought 
against  the  daughter  —  a  pretty  lass,  but  too  high  for  my  kisses. 
And  as  for  the  father,  I  want  not  the  man's  life  —  that  is,  not 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  469 

very  specially — but  his  model,  his  mechanical.  He  may  go 
free,  if  that  can  be  compassed  ;  if  not — why,  the  model  at  all 
risks  !  Serve  me  in  this." 

"  And  thou  will  teach  me  the  last  tricks  of  the  cards,  and 
thy  great  art  of  making  phantoms  glide  by  on  the  wall  ?" 

"Bring  the  model  intact,  and  I  will  teach  thee  more,  Graul — 
the  dead  man's  candle,  and  the  charm  of  the  newt ;  and  I'll 
give  thee,  to  boot,  the  caul  of  the  parricide,  that  thou  hast 
prayed  me  so  oft  for.  Hum  !  thou  hast  a  girl  in  thy  troop  who 
hath  a  blinking  eye  that  well  pleases  me  ;  but  go  now,  and 
obey  me.  Work  before  play — and  grace  before  pudding  !  " 

The  tymbestere  nodded,  snapped  her  fingers  in  the  air,  and 
humming  no  holy  ditty,  returned  to  the  house  through  the 
door- way. 

This  short  conference  betrays  to  the  reader  the  relations, 
mutually  advantageous,  which  subsisted  between  the  conjurer 
and  the  tymbesteres.  Their  troop  (the  mothers,  perchance,  of 
the  generation  we  treat  of)  had  been  familiar  to  the  friar  in  his 
old  capacity  of  mountebank  or  tregetour,  and  in  his  clerical 
and  courtly  elevation  he  did  not  disdain  an  ancient  connection 
that  served  him  well  with  the  populace  ;  for  these  grim  children 
of  vice  seemed  present  in  every  place  where  pastime  was  gay, 
or  strife  was  rampant :  in  peace  at  the  merry-makings  and  the 
hostelries  ;  in  war,  following  the  camp,  and  seen,  at  night, 
prowling  through  the  battle-fields  to  despatch  the  wounded 
and  to  rifle  the  slain — in  merry-making,  hostelry,  or  in  camp, 
they  could  thus  still  spread  the  fame  of  Friar  Bungey,  and  up- 
hold his  repute  both  for  terrible  lore  and  for  hearty  love  of  the 
Commons. 

Nor  was  this  all  ;  both  tymbesteres  and  conjurer  were  for- 
tune-tellers by  profession.  They  could  interchange  the  anec- 
dotes each  picked  up  in  their  different  lines.  The  tymbestere 
could  thus  learn  the  secrets  of  gentle  and  courtier,  the  conjurer 
those  of  the  artisan  and  mechanic. 

Unconscious  of  the  formidable  dispositions  of  their  neigh- 
bors, Sibyll  and  Warner  were  inhaling  the  sweet  air  of  the  early 
spring  in  their  little  garden.  His  disgrace  had  affected  the 
philosopher  less  than  might  be  supposed.  True,  that  the  loss 
of  the  King's  favor  was  the  deferring  indefinitely — perhaps  for 
life — any  practical  application  of  his  adored  theory  ;  and  yet, 
somehow  or  other,  the  theory  itself  consoled  him.  At  the 
worst,  he  should  find  some  disciple,  some  ingenious  student, 
more  fortunate  than  himself,  to  whom  he  could  bequeath  the 
secret,  and  who,  when  Adam  was  in  his  grave,  would  teach  the 


410  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

world  to  revere  his  name.  Meanwhile,  his  time  was  his  own  : 
lie  was  lord  of  a  home,  though  ruined  and  desolate  ;  he  was 
free,  with  his  free  thoughts  ;  and  therefore,  as  he  paced  the  nar- 
row garden,  his  step  was  lighter,  his  mind  less  absent,  than 
when  parched  with  feverish  fear  and  hope,  for  the  immediate 
practical  success  of  a  principle  which  was  to  be  tried  before 
the  hazardous  tribunal  of  prejudice  and  ignorance. 

"  My  child,"  said  the  sage,  "  I  feel,  for  the  first  time  for  years, 
the  distinction  of  the  seasons.  I  feel  that  we  are  walking  in  the 
pleasant  spring.  Young  days  come  back  to  me  like  dreams  ;  and 
I  could  almost  think  thy  mother  were  once  more  by  my  side  !  " 

Sibyll  pressed  her  father's  hand,  and  a  soft  but  melancholy 
sigh  stirred  her  rosy  lips.  She,  too,  felt  the  balm  of  the  young 
year  ;  yet  her  father's  words  broke  upon  sad  and  anxious 
musings.  Not  to  youth  as  to  age,  not  to  loving  fancy  as  to 
baffled  wisdom,  has  seclusion  charms  that  compensate  for  the 
passionate  and  active  world !  On  coming  back  to  the  old 
house,  on  glancing  round  its  mildewed  walls,  comfortless  and 
bare,  the  neglected,  weed-grown  garden,  Sibyll  had  shuddered 
in  dismay.  Had  her  ambition  fallen  again  into  its  old  abject 
state  ?  Were  all  her  hopes  to  restore  her  ancestral  fortunes,  to 
vindicate  her  dear  father's  fame,  shrunk  into  this  slough  of 
actual  poverty — the  butterfly's  wings  folded  back  into  the 
chrysalis  shroud  of  torpor?  The  vast  disparity  between  her- 
self and  Hastings  had  not  struck  her  so  forcibly  at  the  court ; 
here,  at  home,  the  very  walls  proclaimed  it.  When  Edward 
had  dismissed  the  unwelcome  witnesses  of  his  attempted 
crime,  he  had  given  orders  that  they  should  be  conducted  to 
their  house  through  the  most  private  ways.  He  naturally  de- 
sired to  create  no  curious  comment  upon  their  departure. 
Unperceived  by  their  neighbors,  Sibyll  and  her  father  had 
gained  access  by  the  garden  gate.  Old  Madge  received  them 
in  dismay ;  for  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  Sibyll 
weekly  at  the  palace,  and  had  gained,  in  the  old  familiarity 
subsisting  then  between  maiden  and  nurse,  some  insight  into 
her  heart.  She  had  cherished  the  fondest  hopes  for  the  fate 
of  her  young  mistress  ;  and  now,  to  labor  and  to  penury  had 
the  fate  returned  !  The  guard  who  accompanied  them,  ac- 
cording to  Edward's  orders,  left  some  pieces  of  gold,  which 
Adam  rejected,  but  Madge  secretly  received  and  judiciously 
expended.  And  this  was  all  their  wealth.  But  not  of  toil  nor 
of  penury  in  themselves  thought  Sibyll  ;  she  thought  but  of 
Hastings — wildly,  passionately,  trustfully,  unceasingly,  of  the 
absent  Hastings.  Oil  !  he  would  seek  her — he  would  come — 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  411 

her  reverse  would  but  the  more  endear  her  to  him  !  Hastings 
came  not.  She  soon  learned  the  wherefore.  War  threatened 
the  land  ;  he  was  at  his  post,  at  the  head  of  armies. 

Oh,  with  what  panoply  of  prayer  she  sought  to  shield  that 
beloved  breast !  And  now  the  old  man  spoke  of  the  blessed 
spring,  the  holiday  time  of  lovers  and  of  love,  and  the  young 
girl,  sighing,  said  to  her  mournful  heart :  "  The  world  hath 
its  sun — where  is  mine?  " 

The  peacock  strutted  up  to  his  poor  protectors,  and  spread 
his  plumes  to  the  gilding  beams.  And  then  Sibyll  recalled  the 
day  when  she  had  walked  in  that  spot  with  Marmaduke,  and 
he  had  talked  of  his  youth,  ambition,  and  lusty  hopes,  while, 
silent  and  absorbed,  she  had  thought  within  herself,  "  could 
the  world  be  open  to  me  as  to  him — 1  too  have  ambition,  and 
it  should  find  its  goal."  Now  what  contrast  between  the  two  : 
the  man  enriched  and  honored,  if  to-day  in  peril  or  in  exile, 
to-morrow  free  to  march  forward  still  on  his  career — the  world 
the  country  to  him  whose  heart  was  bold  and  whose  name  was 
stainless  !  And  she,  the  woman,  brought  back  to  the  prison- 
home,  scorn  around  her,  impotent  to  avenge,  and  forbidden 
to  fly  !  Wherefore  ?  Sibyll  felt  her  superiority  of  mind,  of 
thought,  of  nature — Wherefore  the  contrast  ?  The  success 
was  that  of  man,  the  discomfiture  that  of  woman.  Woe  to  the 
man  who  precedes  his  age,  but  never  yet  has  an  age  been  in 
which  genius  and  ambition  are  safe  to  woman  ! 

The  father  and  the  child  turned  into  their  house  ;  the  day 
was  declining  ;  Adam  mounted  to  his  studious  chamber,  Sibyll 
sought  the  solitary  servant. 

"  What  tidings,  oh,  what  tidings  !  The  war,  you  say,  is 
over ;  the  great  Earl,  his  sweet  daughter,  safe  upon  the  seas, 
but  Hastings,  oh,  Hastings,  what  of  him  !  " 

"My  bonnibell,  my  lady-bird,  I  have  none  but  good  tales  to 
tell  thee.  I  saw  and  spoke  with  a  soldier  who  served  under 
Lord  Hastings  himself  ;  he  is  unscathed,  he  is  in  London. 
But  they  say  that  one  of  his  bands  is  quartered  in  the  suburb, 
and  that  there  is  a  report  of  a  rising  in  Hertfordshire." 

"When  will  peace  come  to  England  and  to  me?"  sighed 
Sibyll. 

CHAPTER  IV. 
THIS  WORLD'S  JUSTICE,  AND  THE  WISDOM  OF  OUR  ANCESTORS. 

THE  night  had  now  commenr ed,  and  Sibyll  was  still  listen- 
ing— or,  perhaps,  listening  not — to  the  soothing  babble  of  the 


41-'  THK    LAST    01     -I'll  I.    HAUONS. 

venerable  servant.  They  were  both  seated  in  the  little  room 
that  adjoined  the  hall,  and  their  only  light  came  through  the 
door  opening  on  the  garden — a  gray,  indistinct  twilight,  re- 
lieved by  the  few  earliest  stars.  The  peacock,  his  head  under 
his  wing,  roosted  on  the  balustrade,  and  the  song  of  the  nightin- 
gale, from  amidst  one  of  the  neighboring  copses,  which  studded 
the  ground  towards  the  chase  of  Marybone,  came  soft  and  dis- 
tant on  the  serene  air.  The  balm  and  freshness  of  spring  were 
felt  in  the  dews,  in  the  skies,  in  the  sweet  breath  of  young 
herb  and  leaf  ;  through  the  calm  of  ever-watchful  nature,  it 
seemed  as  if  you  might  mark,  distinct  and  visible,  minute  after 
minute,  the  blessed  growth  of  April  into  May. 

Suddenly,  Madge  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm,  and  pointed  towards 
the  opposite  wall.  Sibyll,  startled  from  her  revery,  looked  up, 
and  saw  something  dusk  and  dwarf-like  perched  upon  the 
crumbling  eminence.  Presently  this  apparition  leaped  lightly 
into  the  garden,  and  the  alarm  of  the  women  was  lessened  on 
seeing  a  young  boy  creep  stealthily  over  the  grass,  and  ap- 
proach the  open  door. 

"  Heh,  child  !  "  said  Madge,  rising.     "  What  wantest  thou  ? " 

"  Hist,  gammer,  hist !  Ah  !  the  young  mistress  ?  That's 
well.  Hist !  I  say  again."  The  boy  entered  the  room. 
"  I'm  in  time  to  save  you.  In  half  an  hour  your  house  will  be 
broken  into,  perhaps  burnt.  The  boys  are  clapping  their  hands 
now  at  the  thoughts  of  the  bonfire.  Father  and  all  the  neigh- 
bors are  getting  ready.  Hark !  hark  !  No,  it  is  only  the 
wind  !  The  tymbesteres  are  to  give  note.  When  you  hear 
their  bells  tinkle,  the  mob  will  meet.  Run  for  your  lives,  you 
and  the  old  man,  and  don't  ever  say  it  was  poor  Tim  who  told 
you  this,  for  father  would  beat  me  to  death.  Ye  can  still  get 
through  the  garden  into  the  fields.  Quick  !  " 

"  I  will  go  to  the  master,"  exclaimed  Madge,  hurrying  from 
the  room. 

The  child  caught  Sibyll  s  cold  hand  through  the  dark. 
"  And  I  say,  mistress,  if  his  worship  is  a  wizard,  don't  let  him 
punish  father  and  mother,  or  poor  Tim,  or  his  little  sister  ; 
though  Tim  was  once  naughty  and  hooted  Master  Warner. 
Many,  many,  many  a  time  and  oft  have  I  seen  that  kind, 
mild  face  in  my  sleep,  just  as  when  it  bent  over  me,  while  I 
kicked  and  screamed,  and  the  poor  gentleman  said  :  '  Think- 
est  thou  I  would  harm  thee  ? '  But  he'll  forgive  me  now,  will 
he  not  ?  And  when  I  turned  the  seething  water  over  myself, 
and  they  said  it  was  all  along  of  the  wizard,  my  heart  pained 
more  than  the  arm.  But  they  whip  me,  and  groan  out  that 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  413 

the  devil  is  in  me,  if  I  don't  say  that  the  kettle  upset  of  itself  ! 
Oh,  those  tymbesteres  !  Mistress,  did  you  ever  see  them  ! 
They  fright  me.  If  you  'could  hear  how  they  set  on  all  the 
neighbors  ?  And  their  laugh — it  makes  the  hair  stand  on  end  ! 
But  you  will  get  away,  and  thank  Tim  too  !  Oh,  I  shall  laugh 
then,  when  they  find  the  old  house  empty  !  " 

"  May  our  dear  Lord  bless  thee — bless  thee,  child,"  sobbed 
Sibyll,  clasping  the  boy  in  her  arms,  and  kissing  him,  while 
her  tears  bathed  his  cheeks. 

A  light  gleamed  on  the  threshold — Madge,  holding  a  candle, 
appeared  with  Warner,  his  hat  and  cloak  thrown  on  in  haste. 

"  What  is  this  ?  "  said  the  poor  scholar.  "  Can  it  be  true  ? 
Is  mankind  so  cruel  ?  What  have  I  done,  woe  is  me  !  What 
have  I  done  to  deserve  this  ?  " 

"  Come,  dear  father,  quick,"  said  Sibyll,  drying  her  tears, 
and  wakened,  by  the  presence  of  the  old  man,  into  energy  and 
courage.  "  But  put  thy  hand  on  this  boy's  head,  and  bless  him, 
for  it  is  he  who  has,  haply,  saved  us." 

The  boy  trembled  a  moment  as  the  long-bearded  face  turned 
towards  him,  but  when  he  caught  and  recognized  those  meek, 
sweet  eyes,  his  superstition  vanished,  and  it  was  but  a  holy 
and  grateful  awe  that  thrilled  his  young  blood,  as  the  old  man 
placed  both  bewildered  hands  over  his  yellow  hair,  and 
murmured  : 

"  God  shield  thy  youth — God  make  thy  manhood  worthy — 
God  give  thee  children  in  thine  old  age  with  hearts  like 
thine  !  " 

Scarcely  had  the  prayer  ceased  when  the  clash  of  timbrels, 
with  their  jingling  bells,  was  heard  in  the  street.  Once,  twice, 
again,  and  a  fierce  yell  closed  in  chorus — caught  up  and  echoed 
from  corner  to  corner,  from  house  to  house. 

"  Run,  run  !  "  cried  the  boy,  turning  white  with  terror. 

"  But  the  Eureka — my  hope — my  mind's  child  !  "  exclaimed 
Adam  suddenly,  and  halting  at  the  door. 

"  Eh — eh  !  "  said  Madge,  pushing  him  forward.  "  It  is  too 
heavy  to  move  ;  thou  couldst  not  lift  it.  Think  of  thine  own 
flesh  and  blood — of  thy  daughter — of  her  dead  mother.  Save 
her  life,  if  thou  carest  not  for  thine  own  !  " 

"  Go,  Sibyll,  go — and  thou,  Madge — I  will  stay.  What  mat- 
ters my  life,  it  is  but  the  servant  of  a  thought !  Perish  mas- 
ter— perish  slave  !  " 

"  Father,  unless  you  come  with  me  I  stir  not.  Fly,  or  perish  ! 
Your  fate  is  mine  !  Another  minute  !  Oh,  heaven  of  mercy, 
that  roar  again  !  We  are  both  lost  !  " 


414  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"Go,  sir,  go;  they  care  not  for  your  iron — iron  cannot  feel. 
They  will  not  touch  that!  Have  not  your  daughter's  life 
upon  your  soul ! " 

"  Sibyll,  Sibyll,  forgive  me  !  Come  !  "  said  Warner,  con- 
science-stricken at  the  appeal. 

Madge  and  the  boy  ran  forward  ;  the  old  woman  unbarred 
the  garden-gate,  Sibyll  and  her  father  went  forth — the  fields 
stretched  before  them  calm  and  solitary ;  the  boy  leaped  up, 
kissed  Sibyll's  pale  cheek,  and  then  bounded  across  the  grass, 
and  vanished. 

"  Loiter  not,  Madge.     Come  !  "  cried  Sibyll. 

"Nay,"  said  the  old  woman,  shrinking  back  ;  "  they  bear  no 
grudge  to  me  ;  I  am  too  old  to  do  aught  but  burthen  ye.  I 
will  stay,  and  perchance  save  the  house  and  the  chattels,  and 
poor  master's  deft  contrivance.  Whist  !  thou  knowest  his 
heart  would  break  if  none  were  by  to  guard  it." 

With  that  the  faithful  servant  thrust  the  broad  pieces  that 
yet  remained  of  the  King's  gift  into  the  gipsire  Sibyll  wore  at 
her  girdle,  and  then  closed  and  rebarred  the  door  before  they 
could  detain  her. 

"  It  is  base  to  leave  her,"  said  the  scholar  gentleman. 

The  noble  Sibyll  could  not  refute  her  father.  Afar  they 
heard  the  trampling  of  feet  ;  suddenly,  a  dark  red  light  shot 
up  into  the  blue  air,  a  light  from  the  flame  of  many  torches. 

"  The  Wizard — the  Wizard  !  Death  to  the  Wizard,  who 
would  starve  the  poor  !  "  yelled  forth,  and  was  echoed  by  a 
stern  hurrah. 

Adam  stood  motionless,  Sibyll  by  his  side. 

"The  Wizard  and  his  daughter  !"  shrieked  a  sharp  single 
voice,  the  voice  of  Graul  the  tymbestere. 

Adam  turned.  "  Fly,  my  child  ;  they  now  threaten  thee. 
Come — come — come  ";  and  taking  her  by  the  hand,  he  hurried 
her  across  the  fields,  shirting  the  hedge,  their  shadows  dodg- 
ing, irregular  and  quaint,  on  the  starlit  sward.  The  father  had 
lost  all  thought — all  care  but  for  the  daughter's  life.  They 
paused  at  last,  out  of  breath  and  exhausted  :  the  sounds  at  the 
distance  were  lulled  and  hushed.  They  looked  towards  the 
direction  of  the  house  they  had  abandoned,  expecting  to  see 
the  flames  destined  to  consume  it  reddening  the  sky  :  but  all 
was  dark  ;  or,  rather,  no  light  save  the  holy  stars  and  the 
rising  moon  offended  the  majestic  heaven. 

"  They  cannot  harm  the  poor  old  woman  ;  she  hath  no  lore. 
On  her  gray  hairs  has  fallen  not  the  curse  of  men's  hate  ! "  said 
Warner. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  415 

"Right,  father  ;  when  they  found  us  flown,  doubtless  the 
cruel  ones  dispersed.  But  they  may  search  yet  for  thee.  Lean 
on  me.  I  am  strong  and  young.  Another  effort,  and  we  gain 
the  safe  coverts  of  the  Chase." 

While  yet  the  last  word  hung  on  her  lip,  they  saw,  on  the 
path  they  had  left,  the  burst  of  torchlight,  and  heard  the  mob 
hounding  on  their  track.  But  the  thick  copses,  with  their  pale 
green  just  budding  into  life,  were  at  hand.  On  they  fled  :  the 
deer  started  from  amidst  the  entangled  fern,  but  stood  and 
gazed  at  them  without  fear  ;  the  playful  hares  in  the  green 
alleys  ceased  not  their  nightly  sports  at  the  harmless  footsteps  ; 
and  when  at  last,  in  the  dense  thicket,  they  sunk  down  on  the 
mossy  roots  of  a  giant  oak,  the  nightingales  overhead  chanted 
as  if  in  melancholy  welcome.  They  were  saved  ! 

But  in  their  home  fierce  fires  glared  amidst  the  tossing 
torchlight  ;  the  crowd,  baffled  by  the  strength  of  the  door, 
scaled  the  wall,  broke  through  the  lattice-work  of  the  hall 
window,  and  streaming  through  room  after  room,  roared 
forth  :  "  Death  to  the  \\izard  !  "  Amidst  the  sordid  dresses 
of  the  men,  the  soiled  and  faded  tinsel  of  the  tymbesteres 
gleamed  and  sparkled.  It  was  a  scene  the  she-fiends  revelled 
in  ;  dear  are  outrage  and  malice,  and  the  excitement  of  turbu- 
lent passions,  and  the  savage  voices  of  frantic  men,  and  the 
thirst  of  blood  to  those  everlasting  furies  of  a  mob,  under 
whatever  name  we  know  them,  in  whatever  time  they  taint 
with  their  presence — women  in  whom  womanhood  is  blasted  ! 

Door  after  door  was  burst  open  with  cries  of  disappointed 
rage ;  at  last  they  ascended  the  turret-stairs  ;  they  found  a 
small  door,  barred  and  locked.  Tim's  father,  a  huge  axe  in 
his  brawny  arm,  shivered  the  panels  ;  the  crowd  rushed  in,  and 
there,  seated  amongst  a  strange  and  motley  litter,  they  found 
the  devoted  Madge.  The  poor  old  woman  had  collected  into 
this  place,  as  the  stronghold  of  the  mansion,  whatever  portable 
articles  seemed  to  her  most  precious,  either  from  value  or  as- 
sociation. Sibyll's  gittern  (Marmaduke's  gift)  lay  amidst  a 
lumber  of  tools  and  implements  ;  a  faded  robe  of  her  dead 
mother's,  treasured  by  Madge  and  Sibyll  both,  as  a  relic  of 
holy  love ;  a  few  platters  and  cups  of  pewter,  the  pride  of  old 
Madge's  heart  to  keep  bright  and  clean  ;  odds  and  ends  of  old 
hangings  ;  a  battered  silver  brooch  (a  love-gift  to  Madge  her- 
self when  she  was  young) — these,  and  suchlike  scraps  of  finery, 
hoards  inestimable  to  the  household  memory  and  affection, 
lay  confusedly  heaped  around  the  huge,  grim  model,  before 
which,  mute  and  tranquil,  sate  the  brave  old  woman. 


416  Til!      LAST    OK     rill      I!  A  RONS. 

The  crowd  halted,  and  stared  round  in  superstitious  terror, 
and  dumb  marvel. 

The  leader  of  the  tymbesteres  sprang  forward  : 

"  Where  is  thy  master,  old  hag,  and  where  the  bonny  maid 
who  glamours  lords,  and  despises  us  bold  lasses  ?  " 

"  Alack  !  master  and  the  damsel  have  gone  hours  ago  !  I 
am  alone  in  the  house  :  what's  your  will  ?  " 

"The  crone  looks  parlous  witch-like  !  "  said  Tim's  father, 
crossing  himself,  and  somewhat  retreating  from  her  gray,  un- 
quiet eyes.  And,  indeed,  poor  Madge,  with  her  wrinkled  face, 
bony  form,  and  high  cap,  corresponded  far  more  with  the 
vulgar  notions  of  a  dabbler  in  the  black  art  than  did  Adam 
Warner,  with  his  comely  countenance  and  noble  mien. 

"  So  she  doth,  indeed,  and  verily,"  said  a  humpbacked 
tinker ;  "  if  we  were  to  try  a  dip  in  the  horse-pool  yonder  it 
could  be  no  harm." 

"  Away  with  her  !  away  !  "  cried  several  voices  at  that 
humane  suggestion. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  quoth  the  baker,  "  she  is  a  douce  creature,  after 
all,  and  hath  dealt  with  me  many  years.  I  don't  care  what 
becomes  of  the  wizard — every  one  knows  (he  added  with 
pride)  that  I  was  one  of  the  first  to  set  fire  to  his  house  when 
Robin  gainsayed  it ! — but  right's  right — burn  the  master,  not 
the  drudge  !  " 

This  intercession  might  have  prevailed,  but,  unhappily,  at 
that  moment  Graul  Skellet,  who  had  secured  two  stout  fellows 
to  accomplish  the  object  so  desired  by  Friar  Bungey,  laid 
hands  on  the  model,  and,  at  her  shrill  command,  the  men  ad- 
vanced and  dislodged  it  from  its  place.  At  the  same  time,  the 
other  tymbesteres,  caught  by  the  sight  of  things  pleasing  to 
their  wonted  tastes,  threw  themselves,  one  upon  the  faded 
robe  Sibyll's  mother  had  worn  in  her  chaste  and  happy  youth  ; 
another,  upon  poor  Madge's  silver  brooch  ;  a  third,  upon  the 
gittern. 

These  various  attacks  roused  up  all  the  spirit  and  wrath  of 
of  the  'old  woman  :  her  cries  of  distress,  as  she  darted  from 
one  to  the  other,  striking  to  the  right  and  left  with  her  feeble 
arms,  her  form  trembling  with  passion,  were  at  once  ludicrous 
and  piteous,  and  these  were  responded  to  by  the  shrill  excla- 
mations of  the  fierce  tymbesteres,  as  they  retorted  scratch  for 
scratch,  and  blow  for  blow.  The  spectators  grew  animated  by 
the  sight  of  actual  outrage  and  resistance  :  the  humpbacked 
tinker,  whose  unwholesome  fancy  one  of  the  aggrieved  tymbes- 
teres had  mightily  warmed,  hastened  to  the  relief  of  his  virago  ; 


THE    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS.  /[\"J 

and  rendered  furious  by  finding  tea  nails  fastened  suddenly  on 
his  face,  he  struck  down  the  poor  creature  by  a  blow  that 
stunned  her,  seized  her  in  his  arms — for  deformed  and  weakly 
as  the  tinker  was,  the  old  woman,  now  sense  and  spirit  were 
gone,  was  as  light  as  skin  and  bone  could  be — and  followed  by 
half  a  score  of  his  comrades,  whooping  and  laughing,  bore  her 
down  the  stairs.  Tim's  father,  who,  whether  from  parental 
affection,  or,  as  is  more  probable,  from  the  jealous  hatred  and 
prejudice  of  ignorant  industry,  was  bent  upon  Adam's  destruc- 
tion, hallooed  on  some  of  his  fiercer  fellows  into  the  garden, 
tracked  the  footsteps  of  the  fugitives  by  the  trampled  grass,  and 
bounded  over  the  wall  in  fruitless  chase.  But  on  went  the  more 
giddy  of  the  mob,  rather  in  sport  than  in  cruelty,  with  a  chorus 
of  drunken  apprentices  and  riotous  boys,  to  the  spot  where  the 
humpbacked  tinker  had  dragged  his  passive  burthen.  The 
foul  green  pond  near  Master  Bancroft's  hostel  reflected  the 
glare  of  torches  ;  six  of  the  tymbesteres  leaping  and  wheeling, 
with  doggerel  song  and  discordant  music,  gave  the  signal  for 
the  ordeal  of  the  witch — 

"  Lake  or  river,  dyke  or  ditch, 
Water  never  drowns  the  witch. 
Witch  or  wizard  would  ye  know? — 
Sink  or  swim,  is  ay  or  no. 
Lift  her,  swing  her,  once  and  twice, 

Lift  her,  swing  her  o'er  the  brim, — 
Lille — lera — twice  and  thrice — 

Ha  !  ha  !  mother,  sink  or  swim  !  " 

And  while  the  last  line  was  chanted,  amidst  the  full  jollity  of 
laughter  and  clamor,  and  clattering  timbrels,  there  was  a  splash 
in  the  sullen  water  ;  the  green  slough  on  the  surface  parted 
with  an  oozing  gurgle,  and  then  came  a  dead  silence. 

"A  murrain  on  the  hag,  she  does  not  even  struggle  !"  said, 
at  last,  the  hump-backed  tinker. 

"  No  !  no  !  she  cares  not  for  water — try  fire  !  Out  with  her  ! 
out  !  "  cried  Red  Grisell. 

"Aroint  her,  she  is  sullen  !  "  said  the  tinker,  and  his  lean 
fingers  clutched  up  the  dead  body,  and  let  it  fall  upon  the 
margin. 

"  Dead !  "  said  the  baker,  shuddering,  "  We  have  done 
wrong — I  told  ye  so !  She  dealt  with  me  many  a  year.  Poor 
Madge  !  Right's  right.  She  was  no  witch  !  " 

"  But  that  was  the  only  way  to  try  it,"  said  the  humpbacked 
tinker;  "and  if  she  was  not  a  witch,  why  did  she  look  like 
one  !  I  cannot  abide  ugly  folks  !  " 

The  bystanders  shook  their  heads.     But  whatever  their  re- 


418  THE    LAST    OF    THK    KARONS. 

morse,  it  was  diverted  by  a  double  sound  :  first,  a  loud  hurrah 
from  some  of  the  mob  who  had  loitered  for  pillage,  and  who 
now  emerged  from  Adam's  house,  following  two  men,  who, 
preceded  by  the  terrible  Graul,  dancing  before  them,  and 
tossing  aloft  her  timbrel,  bore  in  triumph  the  captured  Eureka  ; 
and,  secondly,  the  blast  of  a  clarion  at  the  distance,  while  up 
the  street  marched — horse  and  foot,  with  pike  and  banner — a 
goodly  troop.  The  Lord  Hastings  in  person  led  a  royal  force, 
by  a  night  march,  against  a  fresh  outbreak  of  the  rebels,  not 
ten  miles  from  the  city,  under  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates,  who  had 
been  lately  arrested  by  the  Lord  Howard  at  Southampton — 
escaped — collected  a  disorderly  body  of  such  restless  men  as 
are  always  disposed  to  take  part  in  civil  commotion,  and  now 
menaced  London  itself.  At  the  sound  of  the  clarion  the  valiant 
mob  dispersed  in  all  directions,  for  even  at  that  day  mobs  had 
an  instinct  of  terror  at  the  approach  of  the  military,  and  a 
quick  reaction  from  outrage  to  the  fear  of  retaliation. 

But,  at  the  sound  of  martial  music,  the  tymbesteres  silenced 
their  own  instruments,  and  instead  of  flying,  they  darted  through 
the  crowd,  each  to  seek  the  other,  and  unite  as  for  counsel. 
Graul,  pointing  to  Mr.  Sancroft's  hostelry,  whispered  the  bearers 
of  the  Eureka  to  seek  refuge  there  for  the  present,  and  to  bear 
their  trophy  with  the  dawn  to  Friar  Bungey,  at  the  Tower  ; 
and  then,  gliding  nimbly  through  the  fugitive  rioters,  sprang 
into  the  center  of  the  circle  formed  by  her  companions. 

"  Ye  scent  the  coming  battle,"  said  the  arch-tymbestere. 

"Ay,  ay,  ay!"  answered  the  sisterhood. 

"But  we  have  gone  miles  since  noon — I  am  faint  and 
••veary!"  said  one  amongst  them. 

Red  Grisell,  the  youngest  of  the  band,  struck  her  comrade  on 
the  cheek:  "Faint  and  weary,  ronion,  with  blood  and  booty 
in  the  wind!" 

The  tymbesteres  smiled  grimly  on  their  young  sister;  but  the 
leader  whispered  "Hush!"  And  they  stood  fora  seconder 
two  with  outstretched  throats,  with  dilated  nostrils,  with  pent 
breath,  listening  to  the  clarion,  and  the  hoofs,  and  the  rattling 
armor — the  human  vultures  foretasting  their  feast  of  carnage; 
then,  obedient  to  a  sign  from  their  chieftainess,  they  crept 
lightly  and  rapidly  into  the  mouth  of  a  neighboring  alley,  where 
they  cowered  by  the  squalid  huts,  concealed.  The  troop 
passed  on — a  gallant  and  serried  band — horse  and  foot  about 
fifteen  hundred  men.  As  they  filed  up  the  thoroughfare,  and 
the  tramp  of  the  last  soldiers  fell  hollow  on  the  starlit  ground, 
the  tymbesteres  stole  from  their  retreat,  and,  at  the  distance 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  419 

of  some  few  hundred  yards,  followed  the  procession,  with 
long,  silent,  stealthy  strides — as  the  meaner  beasts,  in  the  in- 
stinct of  hungry  cunning,  follow  the  lion  for  the  garbage  of  his 
prey. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  FUGITIVES  ARE  CAPTURED — THE  TYMBESTERES  RE- 
APPEAR— MOONLIGHT  ON  THE  REVEL  OF  THE  LIVING — MOON- 
LIGHT ON  THE  SLUMBER  OF  THE  DEAD. 

THE  father  and  child  made  their  resting-place  under  the  giant 
oak.  They  knew  not  whither  to  fly  for  refuge — the  day  and  the 
night  had  become  the  same  to  them — the  night  menaced  with 
robbers,  the  day  with  the  mob.  If  return  to  their  home  was 
forbidden,  where  in  the  wide  world  a  shelter  for  the  would-be 
world-improver?  Yet  they  despaired  not,  their  hearts  failed 
them  not.  The  majestic  splendor  of  the  night,  as  it  deepened 
in  its  solemn  calm :  as  the  shadows  of  the  windless  trees  fell 
larger  and  sharper  upon  the  silvery  earth ;  as  the  skies  grew 
mellower  and  more  luminous  in  the  strengthening  starlight,  in- 
spired them  with  the  serenity  of  faith,  for  night,  to  the  earnest 
soul,  opens  the  bible  of  the  universe,  and  on  the  leaves  of 
Heaven  is  written:  "God  is  everywhere!" 

Their  hands  were  clasped,  each  in  each ;  their  pale  faces 
were  upturned;  they  spoke  not,  neither  were  they  conscious 
that  they  prayed,  but  their  silence  was  thought,  and  the  thought 
was  worship. 

Amidst  the  grief  and  solitude  of  the  pure,  there  comes,  at 
times,  a  strange  and  rapt  serenity — a  sleep-awake — over  which 
the  instinct  of  life  beyond  the  grave  glides  like  a  noiseless 
dream ;  and  ever  that  heaven  that  the  soul  yearns  for  is  col- 
ored by  the  fancies  of  the  fond  human  heart,  each  fashioning 
the  above  from  the  desires  unsatisfied  below. 

"There,"  thought  the  musing  maiden,  "cruelty  and  strife 
shall  cease ;  there,  vanish  the  harsh  differences  of  life ;  there, 
those  whom  we  have  loved  and  lost  are  found,  and  through 
the  Son,  who  tasted  of  mortal  sorrow,  we  are  raised  to  the  home 
of  the  Eternal  Father!" 

"And  there,"  thought  the  aspiring  sage,  "the  mind,  dun- 
geoned and  chained  below,  rushes  free  into  the  realms  of  space; 
there,  from  every  mystery  falls  the  veil ;  there,  the  Omniscient 
smiles  on  those  who  through  the  darkness  of  life  have  fed  that 
lamp,  the  soul;  there,  Thought,  but  the  seed  on  earth,  bursts 
into  the  flower,  and  ripens  to  the  fruit!" 


42O  THE  LAST  OK  THK  BARONS. 

And  on  the  several  hope  of  both  maid  and  sage  the  eyes  of 
the  angel  stars  smiled  with  a  common  promise. 

At  last,  insensibly,  and  while  still  musing,  so  that  slumber 
but  continued  the  revery  into  visions,  father  and  daughter 
slept. 

The  night  passed  away;  the  dawn  came  slow  and  gray;  the 
antlers  of  the  deer  stirred  above  the  fern ;  the  song  of  the 
nightingale  was  hushed;  and  just  as  the  morning  star  waned 
back,  while  the  reddening  east  announced  the  sun,  and  labor  and 
trouble  resumed  their  realm  of  day,  a  fierce  band  halted  before 
those  sleeping  forms. 

These  men  had  been  Lancastrian  soldiers,  and,  reduced  to 
plunder  for  a  living,  had,  under  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates,  formed 
the  most  stalwart  part  of  the  wild,  disorderly  force  whom  Hil- 
yard  and  Coniers  had  led  to  Olney.  They  had  heard  of  the 
new  outbreak,  headed  by  their  ancient  captain,  Sir  Geoffrey 
(who  was  supposed  to  have  been  instigated  to  his  revolt  by  the 
gold  and  promises  of  the  Lancastrian  chiefs),  and  were  on  their 
way  to  join  the  rebels;  but  as  war  for  them  was  but  the  name 
for  booty,  they  felt  the  wonted  instinct  of  the  robber,  when 
they  caught  sight  of  the  old  man  and  the  fair  maid. 

Both  Adam  and  his  daughter  wore,  unhappily,  the  dresses 
in  which  they  had  left  the  court,  and  Sibyll's  especially  was 
that  which  seemed  to  betoken  a  certain  rank  and  station. 

"Awake — rouse  ye!"  said  the  captain  of  the  band,  roughly 
shaking  the  arm  which  encircled  Sibyll's  slender  waist.  Adam 
started,  opened  his  eyes,  and  saw  himself  begirt  by  figures  in 
rusty  armor,  with  savage  faces  peering  under  their  steel  sallets. 

"How  came  ye  hither?  Yon  oak  drops  strange  acorns," 
quoth  the  chief. 

"Valiant  sir!"  replied  Adam,  still  seated,  and  drawing  his 
gown  instinctively  over  Sibyll's  face,  which  nestled  on  his  bosom, 
in  slumber  so  deep  and  heavy  that  the  gruff  voice  had  not 
broken  it.  "Valiant  sir!  we  are  forlorn  and  houseless — an  old 
man  and  a  simple  girl.  Some  evil-minded  persons  invaded  our 
home — we  fled  in  the  night — and — " 

"Invaded  your  house!  ha,  it  is  clear,"  said  the  chief.  "We 
know  the  rest." 

At  this  moment  Sibyll  woke,  and  starting  to  her  feet  in  as- 
tonishment and  terror  at  the  sight  on  which  her  eyes  opened, 
her  extreme  beauty  made  a  sensible  effect  upon  the  bravos. 

"Do  not  be  daunted,  young  demoiselle,"  said  the  captain, 
with  an  air  almost  respectful — "It  is  necessary  thou  and  Sir 
John  should  follow  us,  but  we  will  treat  you  well,  and  consult 


THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS.  42 1 

later  on  the  ransom  ye  will  pay  us.  Jock,  discharge  the  young 
sumpter  mule ;  put  its  load  on  the  black  one.  We  have  no 
better  equipment  for  thee,  lady — but  the  first  haquenee  we  find 
shall  replace  the  mule,  and  meanwhile  my  knaves  will  heap 
their  cloaks  for  a  pillion." 

"But  what  mean  you  ! — you  mistake  us ! "  exclaimed  Sibyll — 
"we  are  poor;  we  cannot  ransom  ourselves." 

"Poor!  tut!"  said  the  captain,  pointing  significantly  to  the 
costly  robe  of  the  maiden — "moreover,  his  worship's  wealth  is 
well  known.  Mount  in  haste — we  are  pressed." 

And  without  heeding  the  expostulations  of  Sibyll  and  the 
poor  scholar,  the  rebel  put  his  troop  into  motion,  and  marched 
himself  at  their  head,  with  his  lieutenant. 

Sibyll  found  the  subalterns  sterner  than  their  chief;  for  as 
Warner  offered  to  resist,  one  of  them  lifted  his  gisarme,  with  a 
frightful  oath,  and  Sibyll  was  the  first  to  persuade  her  father  to 
submit.  She  mildly,  however,  rejected  the  mule,  and  the  two 
captives  walked  together  in  the  midst  of  the  troop. 

"Pardie!"  said  the  lieutenant,  "I  see  little  help  to  Sir  Geof- 
frey in  these  recruits,  captain!" 

"Fool!"  said  the  chief  disdainfully — "if  the  rebellion  fail, 
these  prisoners  may  save  our  necks.  Will  Somers,  last  night, 
was  to  break  into  the  house  of  Sir  John  Bourchier,  for  arms 
and  moneys,  of  which  the  knight  hath  a  goodly  store.  Be  sure, 
Sir  John  slinked  off  in  the  siege,  and  this  is  he  and  his  daugh- 
ter. Thou  knowest  he  is  one  of  the  greatest  knights,  and  the 
richest,  whom  the  Yorkists  boast  of;  and  we  may  name  our 
own  price  for  his  ransom." 

"But  where  lodge  them,  while  we  go  to  the  battle?" 

"Ned  Porpustone  hath  a  hostelry  not  far  from  the  camp,  and 
Ned  is  a  good  Lancastrian,  and  a  man  to  be  trusted." 

"We  have  not  searched  the  prisoners,"  said  the  lieutenant; 
"they  may  have  some  gold  in  their  pouches." 

"Marry,  when  Will  Somers  storms  a  hive,  little  time  does  he 
leave  to  the  bees  to  fly  away  with  much  honey !  Nathless, 
thou  mayest  search  the  old  knight,  but  civilly,  and  with  gentle 
excuses." 

"And  the  damsel?" 

"Nay!  that  were  unmannerly,  and  the  milder  our  conduct, 
the  larger  the  ransom — when  we  have  great  folks  to  deal  with." 

The  lieutenant  accordingly  fell  back  to  search  Adam's  gip- 
sire,  which  contained  only  a  book  and  a  file,  and  then  rejoined 
his  captain,  without  offering  molestation  to  Sibyll. 

The   mistake  made  by  the  bravo  was  at  least  so  far  not 


Till-:    LAST    OK    THE 

wholly  unfortunate,  that  the  notion  of  the  high  quality  of  the 
captives — for  Sir  John  Bourchier  was  indeed  a  person  of  consid- 
erable station  and  importance  (a  notion  favored  by  the  noble 
appearance  of  the  scholar,  and  the  delicate  and  high-born  air  of 
Sibyll) — procured  for  them  all  the  respect  compatible  with  the 
circumstances.  They  had  not  gone  far  before  they  entered  a 
village,  through  which  the  ruffians  marched  with  the  most  per- 
fect impunity;  for  it  was  a  strange  feature  in  those  civil  wars, 
that  the  mass  of  the  population,  except  in  the  northern  dis- 
tricts, remained  perfectly  supine  and  neutral :  and  as  the  little 
band  halted  at  a  small  inn  to  drink,  the  gossips  of  the  village 
collected  round  them,  with  the  same  kind  of  indolent,  careless 
curiosity  which  is  now  evinced,  in  some  hamlet,  at  the  halt  of 
a  stage-coach.  Here  the  captain  learned,  however,  some  intel- 
ligence important  to  his  objects,  viz.,  the  night  march  of  the 
troop  under  Lord  Hastings,  and  the  probability  that  the  con- 
flict was  already  begun.  "If  so,"  muttered  the  rebel,  "we  can 
see  how  the  tide  turns,  before  we  endanger  ourselves;  and  at 
the  worst  our  prisoners  will  bring  something  of  prize-money." 
While  thus  soliloquizing,  he  spied  one  of  those  cumbrous 
vehicles  of  the  day  called  whirlicotes*  standing  in  the  yard  of 
the  hostelry ;  and  seizing  upon  it,  vi  et  armi's,  in  spite  of  all 
the  cries  and  protestations  of  the  unhappy  landlord,  he  or- 
dered his  captives  to  enter,  and  recommenced  his  march.  As 
the  band  proceeded  farther  on  their  way,  they  were  joined  by 
fresh  troops,  of  the  same  class  as  themselves,  and  they  pushed 
on  gayly,  till,  about  the  hour  of  eight,  they  halted  before  the 
hostelry  the  captain  had  spoken  of.  It  scood  a  little  out  of 
the  high-road,  not  very  far  from  the  village  of  Hadley,  and  the 
heath  or  chase  of  Gladsmoor,  on  which  was  fought,  some  time 
afterwards,  the  Battle  of  Barnet.  It  was  a  house  of  good  aspect, 
and  considerable  size,  for  it  was  much  frequented  by  all  cara- 
vanserais and  travellers  from  the  north  to  the  metropolis.  The 
landlord,  at  heart  a  stanch  Lancastrian,  who  had  served  in  the 
French  wars,  and  contrived,  no  one  knew  how,  to  save  moneys 
in  the  course  of  an  adventurous  life,  gave  to  his  hostelry  the  ap- 
pellation and  sign  of  the  Talbot,  in  memory  of  the  old  hero  of 
that  name;  and,  hiring  a  tract  of  land,  joined  the  occupation 
of  a  farmer  to  the  dignity  of  a  host.  The  house,  which  was 
built  round  a  spacious  quadrangle,  represented  the  double  char- 
acter of  its  owner,  one  side  being  occupied  by  barns  and  a 

*  Whirlicotes  were  in  use  from  a  very  early  period,  but  only  among  the  great,  till,  in  the 
reign  of  Richard  II.,  his  queen,  Anne,  introduced  side-saddles,  when  the  whirlicote  fell  out 
of  fashion,  but  might  be  found  at  different  hostelries  on  the  main  roads,  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  infirm  or  aged. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  423 

considerable  range  of  stabling,  while  cows,  oxen,  and  ragged 
colts  grouped  amicably  together,  in  a  space  railed  off  in  the 
centre  of  the  yard.  At  another  side  ran  a  large  wooden  stair- 
case,with  an  open  gallery,  propped  on  wooden  columns,  con- 
ducting to  numerous  chambers,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Tabard 
in  Southwark,  immortalized  by  Chaucer.  Over  the  archway, 
on  entrance,  ran  a  labyrinth  of  sleeping  lofts,  for  foot  passen- 
gers and  muleteers,  and  the  side  facing  the  entrance  was  nearly 
occupied  by  a  vast  kitchen,  the  common  hall,  and  the  bar,  with 
the  private  parlor  of  the  host,  and  two  or  three  chambers  in  the 
second  story.  The  whirlicote  jolted  and  rattled  into  the  yard. 
Sibyll  and  her  father  were  assisted  out  of  the  vehicle,  and,  after 
a  few  words  interchanged  with  the  host,  conducted  by  Master 
Porpustone  himself  up  the  spacious  stairs  into  a  chamber,  well 
furnished  and  fresh  littered,  with  repeated  assurances  of  safety, 
provided  they  maintained  silence,  and  attempted  no  escape. 

"Ye  are  in  time,"  said  Ned  Porpustone  to  the  Captain — 
"Lord  Hastings  made  proclamation  at  daybreak  that  he  gave 
the  rebels  two  hours  to  disperse." 

"Pest!  I  like  not  those  proclamations.  And  the  fellows 
stood  their  ground?" 

"No;  for  Sir  Geoffrey,  like  a  wise  soldier,  mended  the 
ground  by  retreating  a  mile  to  the  left,  and  placing  the  wood 
between  the  Yorkists  and  himself.  Hastings,  by  this,  must  have 
remarshalled  his  men.  But  to  pass  the  wood  is  slow  work,  and 
Sir  Geoffrey's  cross-bows  are  no  doubt  doing  damage  in  the 
covert.  Come  in,  while  your  fellows  snatch  a  morsel  without ; 
five  minutes  are  not  thrown  away  on  filling  their  bellies." 

"Thanks, Ned — thou  art  a  good  fellow!  and  if  all  else  fail, 
why  Sir  John's  ransom  shall  pay  the  reckoning.  Any  news  of 
bold  Robin?" 

"Ay!  he  has  'scaped  with  a  whole  skin,  and  gone  back  to 
the  north,"  answered  the  host,  leading  the  way  to  his  parlor, 
where  a  flask  of  strong  wine  and  some  cold  meats  awaited  his 
guest.  "If  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates  can  beat  off  the  York  troopers, 
tell  him,  from  me,  not  to  venture  to  London,  but  to  fall  back 
into  the  marches.  He  will  be  welcome  there,  I  foreguess;  for 
every  northman  is  either  for  Warwick  or  for  Lancaster;  and 
the  two  must  unite  now,  I  trow." 

"But  Warwick  is  flown!"  quoth  the  captain. 

"Tush!  he  has  only  flown,  as  the  falcon  flies  when  he  has  a 
heron  to  fight  with — wheeling  and  soaring.  Woe  to  the  heron 
when  the  falcon  swoops!  But  you  drink  not!" 

"No:  I  must  keep  the  head  cool  to-day.     For  Hastings  is  a 


424  !">••    '  AST    Ol-'    THF.    1IARONS. 

perilous  captain.  Thy  fist,  friend !  if  I  fall,  I  leave  you  Sii  jo^..; 
and  his  girl,  to  wipe  off  old  scores;  if  we  beat  off  the  Yorkists,  1 
vow  to  our  Lady  of  Walsingham  an  image  of  wax,  of  the  weight 
of  myself."  The  marauder  then  started  up,  and  strode  to  his 
men,  who  were  snatching  a  hasty  meal  on  the  space  before  the 
hostel.  He  paused  a  moment  or  so,  while  his  host  whispered : 

"Hastings  was  here  before  daybreak;  but  his  men  only  got 
the  sour  beer;  yours  fight  upon  huff-cap." 

"Up,  men!  To  your  pikes!  Dress  to  the  right !"  thundered 
the  captain,  with  a  sufficient  pause  between  each  sentence. 
"The  York  lozels  have  starved  on  stale  beer — shall  they  beat 
huff-cap  and  Lancaster?  Frisk  and  fresh — up  with  the  Ante- 
lope* banner,  and  long  live  Henry  the  Sixth!" 

The  sound  of  the  shout  that  answered  this  harangue  shook 
the  thin  walls  of  the  chamber  in  which  the  prisoners  were  con- 
fined, and  they  heard  with  joy  the  departing  tramp  of  the  sol- 
diers. In  a  short  time  Master  Porpustone  himself,  a  corpu- 
lent, burly  fellow,  with  a  face  by  no  means  unprepossessing, 
mounted  to  the  chamber,  accompanied  by  a  comely  house- 
keeper, linked  to  him,  as  scandal  said,  by  ties  less  irksome  than 
Hymen's,  and  both  bearing  ample  provisions,  with  rich  pig- 
ment and  lucid  clary,  f  which  they  spread  with  great  formality 
on  an  oak  table  before  their  involuntary  guests. 

"Eat,  your  worship,  eat!"  cried  mine  host  heartily.  "Eat, 
ladybird! — nothing  like  eating  to  kill  time  and  banish  care. 
Fortune  of  war,  Sir  John — fortune  of  war — never  be  daunted! 
Up  to-day,  down  to-morrow.  Come  what  may — York  or  Lan- 
caster— still  a  rich  man  always  falls  on  his  legs.  Five  hundred 
marks  or  so  to  the  captain ;  a  noble  or  two,  out  of  pure  gener- 
osity, to  Ned  Porpustone  (I  scorn  extortion),  and  you  and  the 
fair  young  dame  may  breakfast  at  home  to-morrow,  unless  the 
captain  or  his  favorite  lieutenant  is  taken  prisoner;  and  then, 
you  see,  they  will  buy  off  their  necks  by  letting  you  out  of  the 
bag.  Eat,  I  say — eat!" 

"Verily,"  said  Adam,  seating  himself  solemnly,  and  prepar- 
ing to  obey,  "I  confess  I'm  a-hungered,  and  the  pasty  hath  a 
savory  odor;  but  I  pray  thee  to  tell  me  why  I  am  called  Sir 
John?  Adam  is  my  baptismal  name." 

Ha !  ha !  good — very  good,  your  honor — to  be  sure,  and  your 

father's  name  before  you.    We  are  all  sons  of  Adam,  and  every 

son,  I  trow,  has  a  just  right  and  a  lawful  to  his  father's  name." 

With  that,  followed  by  the  housekeeper,  the  honest  landlord, 

*  The  antelope  was  one  of  the  Lancastrian  badges.    The  special  cognizance  of  Henry  VI, 
was  two  feathers  in  sal  tire. 
t  Clary  was  wins  clarified. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  425 

chuckling  heartily,  rolled  his  goodly  bulk  from  the  chamber, 
which  he  carefully  locked. 

"Comprehendest  thou  yet,  Sibyl?" 

"Yes,  dear  sir  and  father — they  mistake  us  for  fugitives  of 
mark  and  importance ;  and  when  they  discover  their  error,  no 
doubt  we  shall  go  free.  Courage,  dear  father!" 

"Me  seemeth,"  quoth  Adam,  almost  merrily,  as  the  good 
man  filled  his  cup  from  the  wine  flagon — "me  seemeth  that,  if 
the  mistake  could  continue,  it  would  be  no  weighty  misfortune — 
ha!  ha!" — he  stopped  abruptly  in  the  unwonted  laughter,  put 
down  the  cup — his  face  fell.  "Ah,  heaven  forgive  me! — and 
the  poor  Eureka  and  faithful  Madge!" 

"Oh,  father !  fear  not ;  we  are  not  without  protection.  Lord 
Hastings  is  returned  to  London — we  will  seek  him;  he  will 
make  our  cruel  neighbors  respect  thee.  And  Madge — poor 
Madge  will  be  so  happy  at  our  return,  for  they  could  not  harm 
her;  a  woman  old  and  alone;  no,  no, man  is  not  fierce  enough 
for  that!" 

"Let  us  so  pray;  but  thou  eatest  not,  child!" 

"Anon,  father,  anon;  I  am  sick  and  weary.  But,  nay,  nay, 
I  am  better  now — better.  Smile  again,  father.  I  am  hungered, 
too ;  yes,  indeed  and  in  sooth,  yes.  Ah,  sweet  St.  Mary,  give 
me  life  and  strength,  and  hope  and  patience,  for  his  dear 
sake!" 

The  stirring  events  which  had  within  the  last  few  weeks  di- 
versified the  quiet  life  of  the  Scholar  had  somewhat  roused  him 
from  his  wonted  abstraction,  and  made  the  actual  world  a 
more  sensible  and  living  thing  than  it  had  hitherto  seemed  to  his 
mind;  but  now,  his  repast  ended,  the  quiet  of  the  place  (for 
the  inn  was  silent  and  almost  deserted),  with  the  fumes  of  the 
wine — a  luxury  he  rarely  tasted — operated  soothingly  upon  his 
thought  and  fancy,  and  plunged  him  into  those  reveries,  so 
dear  alike  to  poet  and  mathematician.  To  the  thinker,  the 
most  trifling  external  object  often  suggests  ideas,  which,  like 
Homer's  chain,  extend,  link  after  link,  from  earth  to  heaven. 
The  sunny  motes,  that  in  a  glancing  column  came  through  the 
lattice,  called  Warner  from  the  real  day — the  day  of  strife  and 
blood,  with  thousands  hard  by,  driving  each  other  to  the 
Hades — and  led  his  scheming  fancy  into  the  ideal  and  abstract 
day — the  theory  of  light  itself;  and  theory  suggested  mechan- 
ism, and  mechanism  called  up  the  memory  of  his  oracle,  old 
Roger  Bacon ;  and  that  memory  revived  the  great  friar's  hiucs 
in  the  Opus  Magus — hints  which  outlined  the  grand  invention 
of  the  telescope:  and  so,  as  over  some  dismal  precipice  a  bird 


426  THF.    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

swings  itself  to  and  fro  upon  the  airy  bough,  the  schoolman's 
mind  played  with  its  quivering  fancy,  and  folded  its  calm  wings 
above  the  verge  of  terror. 

Occupied  with  her  own  dreams,  Sibyll  respected  those  of  her 
father;  and  so  in  silence,  not  altogether  mournful,  the  morn- 
ing and  the  noon  passed,  and  the  sun  was  sloping  westward, 
when  a  confused  sound  below  called  Sibyll's  gaze  to  the  lattice, 
which  looked  over  the  balustrade  of  the  staircase,  into  the  vast 
yard.  She  saw  several  armed  men — their  harness  hewed  and 
battered — quaffing  ale  or  wine  in  haste,  and  heard  one  of  them 
say  to  the  landlord : 

"All  is  lost!  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates  still  holds  out,  but  it  is 
butcher  work.  The  troops  of  Lord  Hastings  gather  round  him 
as  a  net  round  the  fish!" 

Hastings  ! — that  name!  He  was  at  hand ! — he  was  near! — 
they  would  be  saved !  Sibyll's  heart  beat  loudly. 

"And  the  captain?"  asked  Porpustone. 

"Alive  when  I  last  saw  him;  but  we  must  be  off.  In  an- 
other hour  all  will  be  hurry  and  skurry,  flight  and  chase." 

At  this  moment  from  one  of  the  barns  there  emerged,  one 
by  one,  the  female  vultures  of  the  battle.  The  tymbesteres, 
who  had  tramped  all  night  to  the  spot,  had  slept  off  their  fa- 
tigue during  the  day,  and  appeared  on  the  scene  as  the  neigh- 
boring strife  waxed  low,  and  the  dead  and  dying  began  to  cum- 
ber the  gory  ground.  Graul  Skellet,  tossing  up  her  timbrel, 
darted  to  the  fugitives,  and  grinned  a  ghastly  grin  when  she 
heard  the  news — for  the  tymbesteres  were  all  loyal  to  a  king 
who  loved  women,  and  who  had  a  wink  and  a  jest  for  every 
tramping  wench !  The  troopers  tarried  not,  however,  for  fur- 
ther converse,  but  having  satisfied  their  thirst,  hurried  and 
clattered  from  the  yard.  At  the  sight  of  the  ominous  tymbes- 
teres Sibyll  had  drawn  back,  without  daring  to  close  the  lattice 
she  had  opened ;  and  the  women,  seating  themselves  on  a  bench, 
began  sleeking  their  long  hair  and  smoothing  their  garments 
from  the  scraps  of  straw  and  litter  which  betokened  the  nature 
of  their  resting-place. 

"Ho,  girls!"  said  the  fat  landlord,  "ye  will  pay  me  for  board 
and  bed,  I  trust,  by  a  show  of  your  craft.  I  have  two  right 
worshipful  lodgers  up  yonder,  whose  lattice  looks  on  the  yard, 
and  whom  ye  may  serve  to  divert." 

Sibyll  trembled,  and  crept  to  her  father's  side. 

"And,"  continued  the  landlord,  "if  they  like  the  clash  of 
your  musicals,  it  may  bring  ye  a  groat  or  so,  to  help  ye  in  your 
journey.  By  the  way — whither  wend  ye,  wenches?" 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  427 

"To  a  bonny,  jolly  fair,"  answered  the  sinister  voice  of 
Graul— 

"  Where  a  mighty  SHOWMAN  dyes 

The  greenery  into  red  ; 
Where,  presto  !  at  the  word — 

Lies  the  fool  without  his  head — 
Where  he  gathers  in  the  crowd 

To  the  trumpet  and  the  drum, 
With  a  jingle  and  a  tinkle, 
Graul's  merry  lasses  come  !  " 

As  the  two  closing  lines  were  caught  by  the  rest  of  the  tym- 
besteres,  striking  their  timbrels,  the  crew  formed  themselves 
into  a  semicircle,  and  commenced  their  dance.  Their  move- 
ments, though  wanton  and  fantastic,  were  not  without  a  certain 
wild  grace ;  and  the  address  with  which,  from  time  to  time, 
they  cast  up  their  instruments  and  caught  them  in  descending, 
joined  to  the  surprising  agility  with  which,  in  the  evolutions  of 
the  dance,  one  seemed  now  to  chase,  now  to  fly  from  the  other, 
darting  to  and  fro  through  the  ranks  of  her  companions,  wind- 
ing and  wheeling — the  chain  now  seemingly  broken  in  disorder, 
now  united  link  to  link,  as  the  whole  force  of  tne  instrumenta 
clashed  in  chorus — made  an  exhibition  inexpressibly  attrac- 
tive to  the  vulgar. 

The  tymbesteres,  however,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  failed 
to  draw  Sibyll  or  Warner  to  the  window;  and  they  exchanged 
glances  of  spite  and  disappointment. 

"Marry,"  quoth  the  landlord,  after  a  hearty  laugh  at  the 
diversion,  "I  do  wrong  to  be  so  gay,  when  so  many  good  friend^ 
perhaps*  are  lying  stark  and  cold.  But  what  then?  Life  i.1 
short — laugh  while  we  can!" 

"Hist!"  whispered  his  housekeeper;  "art  wode,  Ned? 
Wouldst  thou  have  it  discovered  that  thou  hast  such  quality 
birds  in  the  cage — noble  Yorkists — at  the  very  time  when  Lord 
Hastings  himself  may  be  riding  this  way  after  the  victory?" 

"Always  right,  Meg — and  I'm  an  ass!"  answered  the  host,  in 
the  same  undertone.  "  But  my  good  nature  will  be  the  death  of  me 
some  day.  Poor  gentlefolks,  they  must  be  unked  dull,  yonder ! ' ' 

"If  the  Yorkists  come  hither — which  we  shall  soon  know  by 
the  scouts — we  must  shift  Sir  John  and  the  damsel  to  the  back 
of  the  house,  over  thy  tap-room." 

"Manage  it  as  thou  wilt,  Meg — but,  thou  seest,  they  keep 
quiet  and  snug.  Ho,  ho,  ho!  that  tall  tymbestere  is  supple 
enough  to  make  an  owl  hold  his  sides  with  laughing.  Ah ! 
hollo,  there,  tymbesteres — ribaudes — tramps — the  devil's  chick- 
ens— down,  down!" 


428  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

The  host  was  too  late  in  his  order.  With  a  sudden  spring, 
Graul,  who  had  long  fixed  her  eye  on  the  open  lattice  of  the 
prisoners,  had  wreathed  herself  round  one  of  the  pillars  that 
supported  the  stairs,  swung  lightly  over  the  balustrade — and  with 
a  faint  shriek,  the  startled  Sibyll  beheld  the  tymbestere's  hard, 
fierce  eyes,  glaring  upon  her  through  the  lattice,  as  her  long 
arm  extended  the  timbrel  for  largess.  But  no  sooner  had 
Sibyll  raised  her  face  than  she  was  recognized. 

"Ho!  the  wizard  and  the  wizard's  daughter!  Ho!  the  girl 
who  glamours  lords,  and  wears  sarcenet  and  lawn !  Ho !  the 
nigromancer,  who  starves  the  poor!" 

At  the  sound  of  their  leader's  cry,  up  sprang,  up  climbed 
the  hellish  sisters !  One  after  the  other,  they  darted  through 
the  lattice  into  the  chamber. 

"Theronions!  the  foul  fiend  has  distraught  them  !"  groaned 
the  landlord,  motionless  with  astonishment.  But  the  more 
active  Meg,  calling  to  the  varlets  and  scullions,  whom  the  tym- 
besteres  had  collected  in  the  yard,  to  follow  her,  bounded  up 
the  stairs,  unlocked  the  door,  and  arrived  in  time  to  throw  her- 
self between  the  captives  and  the  harpies,  whom  Sibyll's  rich 
super-tunic  and  Adam's  costly  gown  had  inflamed  into  all  the 
rage  of  appropriation. 

"What  mean  ye,  wretches?"  cried  the  bold  Meg,  purple  with 
anger.  "Do  ye  come  for  this  into  honest  folks'  hostelries,  to 
rob  their  guests  in  broad  day — noble  guests — guests  of  mark ! 
Oh,  Sir  John!  Sir  John!  what  will  ye  think  of  us!" 

"Oh,  Sir  John!  Sir  John!"  groaned  the  landlord,  who  had 
now  moved  his  slow  bulk  into  the  room.  "They 'shall  be 
scourged,  Sir  John !  They  shall  be  put  in  the  stocks;  they 
shall  be  brent  with  hot  iron;  they — " 

"Ha,  ha!"  interrupted  the  terrible  Graul.  "  Guests  of  mark;-- 
noble  guests,  trow  ye !  Adam  Warner,  the  wizard,  and  his  daugh- 
ter, whom  we  drove  last  night  from  their  den,  as  many  a  time, 
sisters,  and  many,  we  have  driven  the  rats  from  charnel  and 
cave." 

"Wizard!  Adam!  Blood  of  my  life!"  stammered  the 
landlord — "is  his  name  Adam  after  all?" 

"My  name  is  Adam  Warner,"  said  the  old  man,  with  dignity; 
"no  wizard — a  humble  scholar,  and  a  poor  gentleman,  who  has 
injured  no  one.  Wherefore,  women — if  women  ye  are — would 
ye  injure  mine  and  me?" 

"Faugh,  wizard!"  returned  Graul,  folding  her  arms.  "Didst 
thou  not  send  thy  spawn,  yonder,  to  spoil  our  mirth  with  her 
gittern?  Hast  thou  not  taught  her  the  spells  to  win  love  from 


LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  429 

the  noble  and  young?  Ho,  how  daintily  the  young  witch 
robes  herself !  Ho !  laces,  and  satins,  and  we  shiver  with  the 
cold,  and  parch  with  the  heat — and — doff  thy  tunic,  minion!" 

And  Graul's  fierce  grip  was  on  the  robe,  when  the  landlord 
interposed  his  huge  arm,  and  held  her  at  bay. 

'  'Softly,  my  sucking  dove,  softly !  Clear  the  room,  and  be  off ! " 

"Look  to  thyself,  man.  If  thou  harborest  a  wizard,  against 
law — a  wizard  whom  King  Edward  hath  given  up  to  the 
people — look  to  thy  barns,  they  shall  burn;  look  to  thy  cattle, 
they  shall  rot ;  look  to  thy  secrets,  they  shall  be  told !  Lancas- 
trian, thou  shalt  hang!  We  go — we  go!  We  have  friends 
among  the  mailed  men  of  York.  We  go — we  will  return! 
Woe  to  thee,  if  thou  harborest  the  wizard  and  the  succuba!" 

With  that,  Graul  moved  slowly  to  the  door.  Host  and  house- 
keeper, varlet,  groom,  and  scullion,  made  way  for  her,  in  ter- 
ror; and  still,  as  she  moved,  she  kept  her  eyes  on  Sibyll,  till 
her  sisters,  following  in  successive  file,  shut  out  the  hideous 
aspect;  and  Meg,  ordering  away  her  gaping  train,  closed  the 
door. 

The  host  and  the  housekeeper  then  gazed  gravely  at  each 
other.  Sibyll  lay  in  her  father's  arms  breathing  hard  and  con- 
vulsively. The  old  man's  face  bent  over  her  in  silence. 

Meg  drew  aside  her  master.  '  'You  must  rid  the  house  at 
once  of  these  folks.  I  have  heard  talk  of  yon  tymbesteres ; 
they  are  awesome  in  spite  and  malice.  Every  man  to  himself ! ' ' 

'  'But  the  poor  old  gentleman,  so  mild — and  the  maid,  so  win- 
some!" 

The  last  remark  did  not  over-please  the  comely  Meg.  She 
advanced  at  once  to  Adam,  and  said  shortly : 

"Master,  whether  wizard  or  not,  is  no  affair  of  a  poor  land- 
lord, whose  house  is  open  to  all ;  but  ye  have  had  food  and 
wine — please  to  pay  the  reckoning,  and  God  speed  ye — ye  are 
free  to  depart." 

"  We  can  pay  you,  mistress  !  "  exclaimed  Sibyll,  springing  up. 
"  We  have  money  yet.  Here — here  !  "  and  she  took  from  her 
gipsire  the  broad  pieces  which  poor  Madge's  precaution  had 
placed  therein,  and  which  the  bravoes  had  fortunately  spared. 

The  sight  of  the  gold  somewhat  softened  the  housewife. 
"  Lord  Hastings  is  known  to  us,"  continued  Sibyll,  perceiving 
the  impression  she  had  made  ;  "suffer  us  to  rest  here  till  he  pass 
this  way,  and  ye  will  find  yourselves  repaid  for  the  kindness." 

"  By  my  troth,"  said  the  landlord,  "  ye  are  most  welcome  to 
all  my  poor  house  containeth  ;  and  as  for  these  tymbesteres,  I 
value  them  not  a  straw.  No  one  can  say  Ned  Porpustone  is 


430  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

an  ill  ni;in  or  inhospitable.  Whoever  can  pay  reasonably,  is 
sure  of  good  wine  and  civility  at  the  Talbot." 

With  these  and  many  similar  protestations  and  assurances, 
which  were  less  heartily  re-echoed  by  the  housewife,  the  landlord 
begged  to  conduct  them  to  an  apartment  not  so  liable  to  moles- 
tation ;  and  after  having  led  them  down  the  principal  stairs, 
though  the  bar,  and  thence  up  a  narrow  flight  of  steps, 
deposited  them  in  a  chamber  at  .the  back  of  the  house,  and 
lighted  a  sconce  therein,  for  it  was  now  near  the  twilight.  He 
then  insisted  on  seeing  after  their  evening  meal,  and  vanished 
with  his  assistant.  The  worthy- pair  were  now  of  the  same 
mind  :  for  guests  known  to  Lord  Hastings,  it  was  worth  braving 
the  threats  of  the  tymbesteres  ;  especially  since  Lord  Hastings, 
it  seems,  had  just  beaten  the  Lancastrians. 

But,  alas  !  while  the  active  Meg  was  busy  on  the  hippocras, 
and  the  worthy  landlord  was  inspecting  the  savory  operations 
of  the  kitchen,  a  vast  uproar  was  heard  without.  A  troop  of 
disorderly  Yorkist  soldiers,  who  had  been  employed  in  dispers- 
ing the  flying  rebels,  rushed  helter-skelter  into  the  house,  and 
poured  into  the  kitchen,  bearing  with  them  the  detested  tym- 
besteres who  had  encountered  them  on  their  way.  Among 
these  soldiers  were  those  who  had  congregated  at  Master  San- 
croft's  the  day  before,  and  they  were  well  prepared  to  support 
the  cause  of  their  griesly  paramours.  Lord  Hastings  himself 
had  retired  for  the  night  to  a  farmhouse  nearer  the  field  of 
battle  than  the  hostel ;  and  as  in  those  days  discipline  was  lax 
enough  afyer  a  victory,  the  soldiers  had  a  right  to  license. 
Master  Porpustone  found  himself  completely  at  the  mercy  of 
these  brawling  customers,  the  more  rude  and  disorderly  from 
the  remembrance  of  the  sour  beer  in  the  morning,  and  Graul 
Skellet's  assurance  that  Master  Porpustone  was  a  malignant 
Lancastrian.  They  laid  hands  on  all  the  provisions  in  the  house, 
tore  the  meats  from  the  spit,  devouring  them  half-raw  ;  set  the 
casks  running  over  the  floors  ;  and  while  they  swilled  and 
swore,  and  filled  the  place  with  the  uproar  of  a  hell  broke  loose, 
Graul  Skellet,  whom  the  lust  for  the  rich  garments  of  Sibyll  still 
fired  and  stung,  led  her  followers  up  the  stairs  towards  the 
deserted  chamber.  Mine  host  perceived,  but  did  not  dare 
openly  to  resist,  the  foray  ;  but  as  he  was  really  a  good-natured 
knave,  and  as,  moreover,  he  feared  ill  consequences  might 
ensue  if  any  friends  of  Lord  Hastings  were  spoiled,  outraged — 
nay,  peradventure,  murdered — in  his  house,  he  resolved,  at  all 
events,  to  assist  the  escape  of  his  guests.  Seeing  the  ground 
thus  clear  of  the  tymbesteres,  he  therefore  stole  from  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  43  f 

riotous  scene,  crept  up  the  back-stairs,  gained  the  chamber 
to  which  he  had  so  happily  removed  his  persecuted  lodgers, 
and  making  them,  in  a  few  words,  sensible  that  he  was 
no  longer  able  to  protect  them,  and  that  the  tymbesteres  were 
now  returned  with  an  armed  force  to  back  their  malice,  con- 
ducted them  safely  to  a  wide  casement  only  some  three  or  four 
feet  from  the  soil  of  the  solitary  garden,  and  bade  them  escape 
and  save  themselves. 

"  'The  farm,"  he  whispered,  "  where  they  say  Lord  Hastings 
is  quartered,  is  scarcely  a  mile  and  a  half  away  ;  pass  the  garden 
wicket,  leave  Gladsmore  Chace  to  the  left  hand,  take  the  path 
to  the  right,  though  the  wood,  and  you  will  see  its  roof  among 
the  apple-blossoms.  Our  Lady  protect  you,  and  say  a  word  to 
my  lord  on  behalf  of  poor  Ned." 

Scarce  had  he  seen  his  guests  descend  into  the  garden,  be- 
fore he  heard  the  yell  of  the  tymbesteres,  in  the  opposite  part 
of  the  house,  as  they  ran  from  room  to  room  after  their  prey. 
He  hastened  to  regain  the  kitchen  ;  and  presently  the  tymbe- 
steres, breathless  and  panting,  rushed  in,  and  demanded  their 
victims. 

"  Marry,"  quoth  the  landlord,  with  the  self-possession  of  a 
cunning  old  soldier,  "  think  ye  I  cumbered  my  house  with 
such  cattle  after  pretty  lasses  like  you  had  given  me  the 
inkling  of  what  they  were?  No  wizard  shall  fly  away  with  the 
sign  of  the  Talbot,  if  1  can  help  it.  They  skulked  off,  I  can 
promise  ye,  and  did  not  even  mount  a  couple  of  broomsticks 
which  I  handsomely  offered  for  their  ride  up  to  London." 

"  Thunder  and  bombards  !  "  cried  a  trooper,  already  half- 
drunk,  and  seizing  Graul  in  his  iron  arms,  "  put  the  conjurer 
out  of  thine  head  now,  and  buss  me,  Graul — 'buss  me  !  " 

Then  the  riot  became  hideous  ;  the  soldiers,  following  their 
comrade's  example,  embraced  the  grim  glee-women,  tearing  and 
hauling  them  to  and  fro,  one  from  the  other,  round  and  round, 
dancing,  hallooing,  chanting,  howling,  by  the  blaze  of  a  mighty 
fire — many  a  rough  face  and  hard  hand  smeared  with  blood 
still  wet,  communicating  the  stain  to  the  cheeks  and  garb  of 
those  foul  feres,  and  the  whole  revel  becoming  so  unutterably 
horrible  and  ghastly,  that  even  the  veteran  landlord  fled  from 
the  spot,  trembling  and  crossing  himself.  And  so,  streaming 
athwart  the  lattice,  and  silvering  over  that  fearful  merry-mak- 
ing, rose  the  moon  ! 

But  when  fatigue  and  drunkenness  had  done  their  work,  and 
the  soldiers  fell  one  over  the  other  upon  the  floor,  the  tables, 
the  benches,  into  the  heavy  sleep  of  riot,  Graul  suddenly 


432  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

fr.un  amidst  the  huddled  bodies,  and  then,  silently  as 
ghouls  from  a  burial-ground,  her  sisters  emerged  also  from 
their  resting-places  beside  the  sleepers.  The  dying  light  of  the 
fire  contended  but  feebly  with  the  livid  rays  of  the  moon,  and 
played  fantastically  over  the  gleaming  robes  of  the  tymbesteres. 
They  stood  erect  for  a  moment,  listening,  Graul  with  her  finger 
on  her  lips  ;  then  they  glided  to  the  door  opened  and  reclosed  it ; 
darted  across  the  yard,  scaring  the  beasts  that  slept  there  ;  the 
watch-dog  barked,  but  drew  back,  bristling  and  showing  his 
fangs,  as  Red  Grisell,  undaunted,  pointed  her  knife,  and  Graul 
flung  him  a  red  peace-sop  of  meat.  They  launched  themselves 
through  the  open  entrance,  gained  the  space  beyond,  and 
scoured  away  to  the  battlefield. 

Meanwhile,  Sibyll  and  her  father  were  still  under  the  canopy 
of  heaven  ;  they  had  scarcely  passed  the  garden,  and  entered 
the  fields,  when  they  saw  horsemen  riding  to  and  fro  in  all 
directions.  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates,  the  rebel  leader,  had  escaped  ; 
the  reward  of  three  hundred  marks  was  set  on  his  head,  and 
the  riders  were  in  search  of  the  fugitive.  The  human  form 
itself  had  become  a  terror  to  the  hunted  outcasts  :  they  crept 
under  a  thick  hedge  till  the  horsemen  had  disappeared,  and 
them  resumed  their  way.  They  gained  the  wood  ;  but  there 
again  they  halted  at  the  sound  of  voices,  and  withdrew  them- 
selves under  covert  of  some  entangled  and  trampled  bushes. 
This  time  it  was  but  a  party  of  peasants,  whom  curiosity  had 
led  to  see  the  field  of  battle,  and  who  were  now  returning 
home.  Peasants  and  soldiers,  both  were  human,  and  therefore 
to  be  shunned  by  those  whom  the  age  itself  put  out  of  the  pale 
of  law.  At  last  the  party  also  left  the  path  free  ;  and  now  it 
was  full  night.  They  pursued  their  way — they  cleared  the 
wood— before  them  lay  the  field  of  battle  ;  and  a  deeper  silence 
seemed  to  fall  over  the  world  !  The  first  stars  had  risen,  but 
not  yet  the  moon.  The  gleam  of  armor  from  prostrate  bodies, 
which  it  had  mailed  in  vain,  reflected  the  quiet  rays  :  here  and 
there  flickered  watchfires,  where  sentinels  were  set,  but  they  were 
scattered  and  remote.  The  outcasts  paused  and  shuddered, 
but  there  seemed  no  holier  way  for  their  feet ;  and  the  roof  of 
the  farmer's  homestead  slept  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  field, 
amidst  white  orchard  blossoms  whitened  still  more  by  the  stars. 
They  went  on,  hand  in  hand — the  dead,  after  all,  were  less 
terrible  than  the  living.  Sometimes  a  stern,  upturned  face, 
distorted  by  the  last  violent  agony,  the  eyes  unclosed  and  glazed, 
encountered  them  with  its  stony  stare  ;  but  the  weapon  was 
powerless  in  the  stiff  hand  ;  the  menace  and  the  insult  came 


TtttC   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  433 

not  from  the  hueless  lips — persecution  reposed,  at  last,  in  the 
lap  of  slaughter.  They  had  gone  midway  though  the  field, 
when  they  heard  from  a  spot  where  the  corpses  lay  thickest 
piled,  a  faint  voice  calling  upon  God  for  pardon  ;  and,  sudden- 
ly, it  was  answered  by  a  tone  of  fiercer  agony,  that  did  not  pray, 
but  curse. 

By  a  common  impulse,  the  gentle  wanderers  moved  silently 
to  the  spot. 

The  sufferer,  in  prayer,  was  a  youth  scarcely  passed  from 
boyhood;  his  helm  had  been  cloven,  his  head  was  bare,  and 
his  long  light  hair,  clotted  with  gore,  fell  over  his  shoulders. 
Beside  him  lay  a  strong-built,  powerful  form,  which  writhed  in 
torture,  pierced  under  the  arm  by  a  Yorkist  arrow,  and  the 
shaft  still  projected  from  the  wound — and  the  man's  curse  an- 
swered the  boy's  prayer. 

"Peace  to  thy  parting  soul,  brother!"  said  Warner,  bending 
over  the  man. 

"Poor  sufferer!"  said  Sibyll  to  the  boy,  "cheer  thee;  we 
will  send  succor;  thou  mayst  live  yet!" 

"Water!  water! — hell  and  torture! — water,  I  say!"  groaned 
the  man;  "one  drop  of  water!" 

It  was  the  captain  of  the  marauders  who  had'  captured  the 
wanderers. 

"Thine  arm!  lift  me!  move  me!  That  evil  man  scares  my 
soul  from  heaven!"  gasped  the  boy. 

And  Adam  preached  penitence  to  the  one  that  cursed,  and 
Sibyll  knelt  down  and  prayed  with  the  one  that  prayed.  And 
up  rose  the  moon! 

Lord  Hastings  sate,  with  his  victorious  captains,  over  mead, 
morat,  and  wine,  in  the  humble  hall  of  the  farm. 

"So,"  said  he,  "we  have  crushed  the  last  embers  of  the  re- 
bellion !  This  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates  is  a  restless  and  resolute 
spirit;  pity  he  escapes  again  for  further  mischief.  But  the 
House  of  Nevile,  that  overshadowed  the  rising  race,  hath 
fallen  at  last — a  waisall,  brave  sirs,  to  the  new  men!" 

The  door  was  thrown  open,  and  an  old  soldier  entered 
abruptly. 

"My  lord!  my  lord!  Oh!  my  poor  son!  he  cannot  be 
found !  The  women,  who  ever  follow  the  march  of  soldiers,  will 
be  on  the  ground  to  despatch  the  wounded,  that  they  may 
rifle  the  corpses!  O  God!  if  my  son — my  boy — my  only 
son — ' ' 

"I  w'st  not,  my  brave  Mervil,  that  thou  hadst  a  son  in  our 
bands ;  yet  I  know  each  man  by  name  and  sight.  Courage ! 


434  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

Our  wounded  have  been  removed,  and  sentries  are  placed  to 
guard  the  field!" 

"Sentries!  Oh,  my  lord,  knowest  thou  not  that  they  wink 
at  the  crime  that  plunders  the  dead?  Moreover,  these  corpse- 
riflers  creep  stealthily  and  unseen,  as  the  red  earth-worms,  to 
the  carcase.  Give  me  some  few  of  thy  men — give  me  warrant 
to  search  the  field!  My  son — my  boy! — not  sixteen  sum- 
mers— and  his  mother — " 

The  man  stopped,  and  sobbed. 

"Willingly!"  said  the  gentle  Hastings,  "willingly!  And 
woe  to  the  sentries  if  it  be  as  thou  sayest!  I  will  go  myself, 
and  see!  Torches  there — what  ho? — the  good  captain  careth 
even  for  his  dead !  Thy  son !  I  marvel  I  knew  him  not ! 
Whom  served  he  under?" 

"My  lord!  my  lord!  pardon  him!  He  is  but  a  boy — they 
misled  him! — he  fought  for  the  rebels.  He  crossed  my  path 
to-day — my  arm  was  raised — we  knew  each  other,  and  he  fled 
from  his  father's  sword!  Just  as  the  strife  was  ended  I  saw 
him  again — I  saw  him  fall!  Oh,  mercy,  mercy!  do  not  let 
him  perish  of  his  wounds  or  by  the  rifler's  knife,  even  though 
a  rebel ! ' ' 

"Homo  sum!"  quoth  the  noble  chief,  "I  am  man!  and, 
even  in  these  bloody  times,  Nature  commands  when  she  speaks 
in  a  father's  voice !  Mervil,  I  marked  thee  to-day !  Thou  art 
a  brave  fellow.  I  meant  thee  advancement — I  give  thee,  in- 
stead, thy  son's  pardon,  if  he  lives — ten  masses  if  he  died  as  a 
soldier's  son  should  die,  no  matter  under  what  flag — antelope 
or  lion,  pierced  manfully  in  the  breast — his  feet  to  the  foe! 
Come,  I  will  search  with  thee!" 

The  boy  yielded  up  his  soul  while  Sibyll  prayed,  and  her 
sweet  voice  soothed  the  last  pang;  and  the  man  ceased  to  curse 
while  Adam  spoke  of  God's  power  and  mercy,  and  his  breath, 
ebbed,  gasp  upon  gasp,  away.  While  thus  detained,  the  wan- 
derers saw  not  pale,  fleeting  figures,  that  had  glided  to  the 
ground,  and  moved,  gleaming,  irregular,  and  rapid,  as  marsh- 
fed  vapors,  from  heap  to  heap  of  the  slain.  With  a  loud,  wild 
cry,  the  robber  Lancastrian  half-sprung  to  his  feet,  in  the  par- 
oxysm of  the  last  struggle,  and  then  fell  on  his  face — a  corpse ! 

The  cry  reached  the  tymbesteres,  and  Graul  rose  from  a  body 
from  which  she  had  extracted  a  few  coins  smeared  with  blood, 
and  darted  to  the  spot ;  and  so,  as  Adam  raised  his  face  from 
contemplating  the  dead,  whose  last  moments  he  had  sought  to 
sooeth,  the  Alecto  of  the  battle-field  stood  before  him,  her 
knife  bare  in  her  gory  hand.  Red  Grisell,  who  had  just  left  (with 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  435 

a  spurn  of  wrath — for  the  pouch  was  empty)  the  corpse  of  a 
soldier,  round  whose  neck  she  had  twined  her  hot  clasp  the 
day  before,  sprang  towards  Sibyll:  the  rest  of  the  sisterhood 
flocked  to  the  place,  and  laughed  in  glee  as  they  beheld  their 
unexpected  prey.  The  danger  was  horrible  and  imminent:  no 
pity  was  seen  in  those  savage  eyes.  The  wanderers  prepared 
for  death,  when,  suddenly,  torches  flashed  over  the  ground. 
A  cry  was  heard:  "See,  the  riflers  of  the  dead!"  Armed  men 
bounded  forward,  and  the  startled  wretches  uttered  a  shrill, 
unearthly  scream,  and  fled  from  the  spot,  leaping  over  the 
carcases,  and  doubling  and  winding,  till  they  had  vanished  into 
the  darkness  of  the  wood. 

"Provost!"  said  a  commanding  voice,  "hang  me  up  those 
sentinels  at  daybreak!" 

"My  son!  my  boy!  speak,  Hal — speak  to  me.  He  is 
here — he  is  found! "  exclaimed  the  old  soldier,  kneeling  beside 
the  corpse  at  Sibyll's  feet. 

"My  lord!  my  beloved!  my  Hastings!"  And  Sibyll  fell 
insensible  before  the  chief. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE    SUBTLE    CRAFT    OF     RICHARD    OF     GLOUCESTER. 

IT  was  some  weeks  after  the  defeat  of  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates, 
and  Edward  was  at  Shene,  with  his  gay  court.  Reclined  at 
length  within  a  pavilion  placed  before  a  cool  fountain,  in  the 
royal  gardens,  and  surrounded  by  his  favorites,  the  King  list- 
ened indolently  to  the  music  of  his  minstrels,  and  sleeked  the 
plumage  of  his  favorite  falcon,  perched  upon  his  wrist.  And 
scarcely  would  it  have  been  possible  to  recognize  in  that  lazy 
voluptuary  the  dauntless  soldier  before  whose  lance,  as  deer 
before  the  hound,  had  so  lately  fled,  at  bloody  Erpingham,  the 
chivalry  of  the  Lancastrian  Rose;  but  remote  from  the  pavilion, 
and  in  one  of  the  deserted  bowling  alleys,  Prince  Richard 
and  Lord  Montagu  walked  apart,  in  earnest  conversation. 
The  last  of  these  noble  personages  had  remained  inactive 
during  the  disturbances,  and  Edward  had  not  seemed  to  enter- 
tain any  suspicion  of  his  participation  in  the  anger  and  revenge 
of  Warwick.  The  King  took  from  him,  it  is  true,  the  lands 
and  earldom  of  Northumberland,  and  restored  them  to  the 
Percy,  but  he  had  accompanied  this  act  with  gracious  excuses, 
alleging  the  necessity  of  conciliating  the  head  of  an  illustrious 
house,  which  had  formally  entered  into  allegiance  to  the  dy- 


J  V  'I'HE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

nasty  of  York,  and  bestowed  upon  his  early  favorite,  in  com- 
pensation, the  dignity  of  marquis.*  The  politic  King,  in  thus 
depriving  Montagu  of  the  wealth  and  the  retainers  of  the 
Percy,  reduced  him,  as  a  younger  brother,  to  a  comparative 
poverty  and  insignificance,  which  left  him  dependent  on  Ed- 
ward's favor,  and  deprived  him,  as  he  thought,  of  the  power  of 
active  mischief;  at  the  same  time,  more  than  ever,  he  insisted 
on  Montagu's  society,  and  summoning  his  attendance  at  the 
court,  kept  his  movements  in  watchful  surveillance. 

"Nay,  my  lord,"  said  Richard,  pursuing  with  much  unction 
the  conversation  he  had  commenced,  "you  wrong  me  much, 
Holy  Paul  be  my  witness,  if  you  doubt  the  deep  sorrow  I  feel 
at  the  unhappy  events  which  have  led  to  the  severance  of  my 
kinsmen !  England  seems  to  me  to  have  lost  its  smile,  in  los- 
ing the  glory  of  Earl  Warwick's  presence,  and  Clarence  is  my 
brother,  and  was  my  friend;  and  thou  knowest,  Montagu,  thou 
knowest,  how  dear  to  my  heart  was  the  hope  to  win  for  my  wife 
and  lady  the  gentle  Anne." 

"Prince,"  said  Montagu  abruptly,  "though  the  pride  of 
Warwick  and  the  honor  of  our  house  may  have  forbidden  the 
public  revelation  of  the  cause  which  fired  my  brother  to  re- 
bellion, thou,  at  least,  art  privy  to  a  secret — " 

"Cease!"  exclaimed  Richard,  in  great  emotion,  probably 
sincere,  for  his  face  grew  livid,  and  its  muscles  were  nervously 
convulsed.  "I  would  not  have  that  remembrance  stirred  from 
its  dark  repose.  I  would  fain  forget  a  brother's  hasty  frenzy, 
in  the  belief  of  his  lasting  penitence."  He  paused  and  turned 
his  face,  grasped  for  breath,  and  resumed:  "The  cause  justi- 
fied the  father;  it  had  justified  me  in  the  father's  cause,  had 
Warwick  listened  to  my  suit,  and  given  me  the  right  to  deem 
insult  to  his  daughter  injury  to  myself." 

"And  if,  my  Prince,"  returned  Montagu,  looking  round  him, 
and  in  a  subdued  whisper,  "if  yet  the  hand  of  Lady  Anne  were 
pledged  to  you?" 

"Tempt  me  not — tempt  me  not!"  cried  the  Prince,  crossing 
himself.  Montagu  continued: 

"Our  cause,  I  mean  Lord  Warwick's  cause,  is  not  lost,  as 
the  King  deems  it." 

"Proceed,"  said  Richard,  casting  down  his  eyes,  while  his 
countenance  settled  back  into  its  thoughtful  calm. 

"I  mean,"  renewed  Montagu,  "that  in  my  brother's  flight, 
his  retainers  were  taken  by  surprise.  In  vain  the  King  would 

*  Montagu  said  bitterly,  of  this  new  dignity,  "  He  takes  from  me  the  Earldom  and  do- 
mains of  Northumberland,  and  makes  me  a  Marquis,  with  a  pie's  nest  to  maintain  it 
withal."  -Stowe,  Edw.  IV.— Warkworth  Chronicle. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  437 

confiscate  his  lands — he  cannot  confiscate  men's  hearts.  If 
Warwick  to-morrow  set  his  armed  heel  upon  the  soil,  trowest 
thou,  sagacious  and  clear-judging  Prince,  that  the  strife  which 
would  follow  would  be  but  another  field  of  Losecote?  *  Thou 
hast  heard  of  the  honors  with  which  King  Louis  has  received 
the  Earl.  Will  that  King  grudge  him  ships  and  moneys?  And 
meanwhile,  thinkest  thou  that  his  favorers  sleep?" 

"But  if  he  land,  Montagu,"  said  Richard,  who  seemed  to 
listen  with  an  attention  that  awoke  all  the  hopes  of  Montagu, 
coveting  so  powerful  an  ally — "if  he  land,  and  make  open  war 
on  Edward — we  must  say  the  word  boldly —what  intent  can  he 
proclaim?  It  is  not  enough  to  say  King  Edward  shall  not 
reign ;  the  Earl  must  say  also  what  King  England  should  elect ! " 

"Prince,"  answered  Montagu,  "before  I  reply  to  that  ques- 
tion, vouchsafe  to  hear  my  own  hearty  desire  and  wish. 
Though  the  King  has  deeply  wronged  my  brother,  though  he 
has  despoiled  me  of  the  lands,  which  were,  peradventure,  not 
too  large  a  reward  for  twenty  victories  in  his  cause,  and  re- 
stored them  to  the  house  that  ever  ranked  amongst  the  strong- 
holds of  his  Lancastrian  foe,  yet  often,  when  I  am  most  resent- 
ful, the  memory  of  my  royal  seigneur's  past  love  and  kindness 
comes  over  me — above  all  the  thought  of  the  solemn  contract 
between  his  daughter  and  my  son ;  and,  I  feel  (now  the  first 
heat  of  natural  anger  at  an  insult  offered  to  my  niece  is  some- 
what cooled)  that  if  Warwick  did  land  I  could  almost  forget 
my  brother  for  my  king." 

"Almost !  "  repeated  Richard,  smiling. 

"I  am  plain  with  your  Highness,  and  say  but  what  I  feel. 
I  would  even  now  fain  trust  that,  by  your  mediation,  the  King 
may  be  persuaded  to  make  such  concessions  and  excuses,  as  in 
truth  would  not  misbeseem  him,  to  the  father  of  Lady  Anne, 
and  his  own  kinsman;  and  that  yet,  ere  it  be  too  late,  I  may 
be  spared  the  bitter  choice  between  the  ties  of  blood  and  my 
allegiance  to  the  King." 

"But  failing  this  hope  (which  I  devoutly  share) — and  Ed- 
ward, it  must  be  owned,  could  scarcely  trust  to  a  letter,  still  less 
to  a  messenger,  the  confession  of  a  crime — failing  this,  and 
your  brother  land,  and  I  side  with  him  for  love  of  Anne, 
pledged  to  me  as  a  bride — what  king  would  he  ask  England  to 
elect?" 

"The  Duke  of  Clarence  loves  you  dearly,  Lord  Richard," 
replied  Montagu.  "Knowest  thou  not  how  often  he  hath  said, 
'By  sweet  St.  George,  if  Gloucester  would  join  me,  I  would 

*  The  battle  of  Erpingham,  so  popularly  called,  in  contempt  of  the  rebellious  runaways. 


438  THF.    LAST    OF    THE    BAROXS. 

make  Edward  know  we  were  all  one  man's  sons,  who  should 
be  more  preferred  and  promoted  than  strangers  of  his  wife's 
blood."* 

Richard's  countenance  for  a  moment  evinced  disappoint- 
ment; but  he  said  dryly :  "Then  Warwick  would  propose  that 
Clarence  should  be  king?  And  the  great  barons,  and  the  hon- 
est burghers,  and  the  sturdy  yeomen  would,  you  think,  not 
stand  aghast  at  the  manifesto  which  declares  not  that  the  dy- 
nasty of  York  is  corrupt  and  faulty,  but  that  the  younger  son 
should  depose  the  elder — that  younger  son,  mark  me !  not  only 
unknown  in  war  and  green  in  council,  but  gay,  giddy,  vac- 
illating— not  subtle  of  wit,  and  resolute  of  deed,  as  he  who 
so  aspires  should  be!  Montagu — a  vain  dream!"  Richard 
paused,  and  then  resumed,  in  a  low  tone,  as  to  himself:  "Oh! 
not  so — not  so  are  kings  cozened  from  their  thrones;  a  pretext 
must  blind  men — say  they  are  illegitimate — say  they  are  too 
young,  too  feeble — too  anything — glide  into  their  place — and 
then  not  war — not  war.  You  slay  them  not — they  disappear  /" 
The  Duke's  face,  as  he  muttered,  took  a  sinister  and  dark  ex- 
pression— his  eyes  seemed  to  gaze  on  space.  Suddenly  recov- 
ering himself,  as  from  a  revery,  he  turned  with  his  wonted 
sleek  and  gracious  aspect  to  the  startled  Montagu,  and  said: 
"I  was  but  quoting  from  Italian  history,  good  my  lord — wise 
lore,  but  terrible,  and  murderous.  Return  we  to  the  point. 
Thou  seest  Clarence  could  not  reign,  and  as  well,"  added  the 
Prince,  with  a  slight  sigh — '  'as  well  or  better  (for  without  vanity, 
I  have  more  of  a  king's  metal  in  me)  might  I — even/ — aspire  to 
my  brother's  crown !"  Here  he  paused,  and  glanced  rapidly  and 
keenly  at  the  Marquis;  but  whether  or  not  in  these  words  he 
had  sought  to  sound  Montagu,  and  that  glance  sufficed  to  show 
him  it  were  bootless  or  dangerous  to  speak  more  plainly,  he 
resumed  with  an  altered  voice:  "Enough  of  this:  Warwick 
will  discover  the  idleness  of  such  design;  and  if  he  land,  his 
trumpets  must  ring  to  a  more  kindling  measure.  John  Mon- 
tagu, thinkest  thou  that  Margaret  of  Anjou  and  the  Lancastri- 
ans will  not  rather  win  thy  brother  to  their  side?  There  is  the 
true  danger  to  Edward — none  elsewhere." 

"And  if  so?"  said  Montagu,  watching  his  listener's  counte- 
nance. Richard  started,  and  gnawed  his  lip.  "Mark  me!" 
continued  the  Marquis — "I  repeat  that  I  would  fain  hope  yet 
that  Edward  may  appease  the  Earl ;  but  if  not,  and  rather 
than  rest  dishonored  and  aggrieved,  Warwick  link  himself  with 
Lancaster,  and  thou  join  him  as  Anne's  betrothed  and  lord, 

*  Hail, 


THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS.  439 

what  matters  who  the  puppet  on  the  throne! — we  and  thou 
shall  be  the  rulers;  or,  if  thou  reject,"  added  the  Marquis, 
artfully,  as  he  supposed,  exciting  the  jealousy  of  the  Duke; 
"Henry  has  a  son — a  fair  and,  they  say,  a  gallant  prince — 
carefully  tutored  in  the  knowledge  of  our  English  laws,  and 
who,  my  lord  of  Oxford,  somewhat  in  the  confidence  of  the 
Lancastrians,  assures  me,  would  rejoice  to  forget  old  feuds,  and 
call  Warwick  'father,'  and  my  niece  'Lady  and  Princess  of 
Wales.'  ' 

With  all  his  dissimulation,  Richard  could  ill  conceal  the  emo- 
tions of  fear,  of  jealousy,  of  dismay,  which  these  words  excited. 

"Lord  Oxford! "  he  cried,  stamping  his  foot.  "Ha!  John 
de  Vere — pestilent  traitor,  plottest  thou  thus?  But  we  can  yet 
seize  thy  person,  and  will  have  thy  head." 

Alarmed  at  this  burst,  and  suddenly  made  aware  that  he  had 
laid  his  breast  too  bare  to  the  boy  whom  he  had  thought  to  daz- 
zle and  seduce  to  his  designs,  Montagu  said  falteringly :  "But, 
my  lord,  our  talk  is  but  in  confidence;  at  your  own  prayer, 
with  your  own  plighted  word,  of  prince  and  of  kinsman,  that, 
whatever  my  frankness  may  utter  should  not  pass  farther. 
Take,"  added  the  nobleman,  with  proud  dignity — "take  my  head 
rather  than  Lord  Oxford's;  for  I  deserve  death,  if  I  reveal  to 
one,  who  can  betray,  the  loose  words  of  another's  intimacy 
and  trust!" 

"Forgive  me,  my  cousin, "said  Richard  meekly;  "my  love 
to  Anne  transported  me  too  far.  Lord  Oxford's  words,  as  you 
report  them,  had  conjured  up  a  rival,  and — but  enough  of  this. 
And  now,"  added  the  prince  gravely,  and  with  a  steadiness 
of  voice  and  manner  that  gave  a  certain  majesty  to  his  small 
stature — "now,  as  thou  hast  spoken  openly,  openly  also  will  I 
reply.  I  feel  the  wrong  to  the  Lady  Anne  as  to  myself; 
deeply,  burningly,  and  lastingly,  will  it  live  in  my  mind;  it  may 
be,  sooner  or  later,  to  rise  to  gloomy  deeds,  even  against  Ed- 
ward and  Edward's  blood.  But  no,  I  have  the  King's  solemn 
protestations  of  repentance;  his  guilty  passion  has  burned  into 
ashes,  and  he  now  sighs — gay  Edward — for  a  lighter  fere.  I 
cannot  join  with  Clarence,  less  can  I  join  with  the  Lancastrians. 
My  birth  makes  me  the  prop  of  the  throne  of  York — to  guard  it  as 
a  heritage  (who  knows ! )  that  may  descend  to  mine — nay,  to  me ! 
And  mark  me  well !  if  Warwick  attempt  a  war  of  fratricide,  he 
is  lost ;  if,  on  the  other  hand,  he  can  submit  himself  to  the  hands 
of  Margaret,  stained  with  his  father's  gore,  the  success  of  an 
hour  will  close  in  the  humiliation  of  a  life.  There  is  a  third 
way  left,  and  that  way  thou  hast  piously  and  wisely  shown. 


440  THE    LAST    OK    THK    BARONS. 

Lot  him,  like  me,  resign  revenge,  and,  not  exacting  a  confes- 
sion and  a  cry  of  Peccavi,  which  no  king,  much  less  King  Kd- 
ward  the  Plantagenet,  can  whimper  forth — let  him  accept  such 
overtures  as  his  liege  can  make.  His  titles  and  castles  shall  be 
restored,  equal  possessions  to  those  thou  hast  lost  assigned  to 
thee,  and  all  my  guerdon  (if  I  can  so  negotiate)  as  all  my  am- 
bition, his  daughter's  hand.  Muse  on  this,  and  for  the  peace 
and  weal  of  the  realm,  so  limit  all  thy  schemes,  my  lord  and 
cousin !" 

With  these  words  the  Prince  pressed  the  hand  of  the  Mar- 
quis, and  walked  slowly  towards  the  King's  pavilion. 

"Shame  on  my  ripe  manhood  and  lore  of  life,"  muttered 
Montagu,  enraged  against  himself  and  deeply  mortified. 
"How  sentence  by  sentence,  and  step  by  step,  yon  crafty 
pigmy  led  me  on,  till  all  our  projects — all  our  fears  and  hopes 
are  revealed  to  him,  who  but  views  them  as  a  foe.  Anne  be- 
trothed to  one,  who  even  in  fiery  youth  can  thus  beguile  and 
dupe!  Warwick  decoyed  hither  upon  fair  words,  at  the  will 
of  one  whom  Italy  (boy,  there  thou  didst  forget  thy  fence  of 
cunning!)  has  taught  how  the  great  are  slain  not,  but  disap- 
pear! No,  even  this  defeat  instructs  me  now.  But  right — 
right!  the  reign  of  Clarence  is  impossible,  and  that  of  Lancas- 
ter is  ill-omened  and  portentous;  and,  after  all,  my  son  stands 
nearer  to  the  throne  than  any  subject,  in  his  alliance  with  the 
Lady  Elizabeth.  Would  to  Heaven  the  King  could  yet — But 
out  on  me!  this  is  no  hour  for  musing  on  mine  own  aggrandize- 
ment; rather  let  me  fly  at  once,  and  warn  Oxford,  imperilled 
by  my  imprudence,  against  that  dark  eye  which  hath  set  watch 
upon  his  life." 

At  that  thought,  which  showed  that  Montagu,  with  all  his 
worldliness,  was  not  forgetful  of  one  of  the  first  duties  of  knight 
and  gentleman,  the  Marquis  hastened  up  the  alley — in  the  op- 
posite direction  to  that  taken  by  Gloucester — and  soon  found 
himself  in  the  courtyard,  where  a  goodly  company  were 
mounting  their  haquene"es  and  palfreys,  to  enjoy  a  summer  ride 
through  the  neighboring  chase.  The  cold  and  half-slighting 
salutations  of  these  minions  of  the  hour,  which  now  mortified 
the  Nevile,  despoiled  of  the  possessions  that  had  rewarded  his 
long  and  brilliant  services,  contrasting  forcibly  the  reverential 
homage  he  had  formerly  enjoyed,  stung  Montagu  to  the  quick. 

"Whither  ride  you,  brother  Marquis?"  said  young  Lord 
Dorset  (Elizabeth's  son  by  her  first  marriage),  as  Montagu 
called  to  his  single  squire,  who  was  in  waiting  with  his  horse. 
"Some  secret  expedition,  methinks,  for  I  have  known  the  day 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  44T 

when  the  Lord  Montagu  never  rode  from  his  King's  palace 
with  less  than  thirty  squires." 

"Since  my  Lord  Dorset  prides  himself  on  his  memory,"  an- 
swered the  scornful  lord,  "he  may  remember  also  the  day 
when,  if  a  Nevile  mounted  in  haste,  he  bade  the  first  Woodville 
he  saw  hold  the  stirrup." 

And  regarding  "the  brother  Marquis"  with  a  stately  eye  that 
silenced  and  awed  retort,  the  long-descended  Montagu  passed  the 
courtiers,  and  rode  slowly  on  till  out  of  sight  of  the  palace;  he 
then  pushed  into  a  hand-gallop,  and  halted  not  till  he  had 
reached  London,  and  gained  the  house  in  which  then  dwelt 
the  Earl  of  Oxford,  the  most  powerful  of  all  the  Lancastrian 
nobles  not  in  exile,  and  who  had  hitherto  temporized  with  the 
reigning  house. 

Two  days  afterwards  the  news  reached  Edward  that  Lord 
Oxford  and  Jasper  of  Pembroke — uncle  to  the  boy  afterwards 
Henry  VII. — had  sailed  from  England. 

The  tidings  reached  the  King  in  his  chamber,  where  he  was 
closeted  with  Gloucester.  The  conference  between  them 
seemed  to  have  been  warm  and  earnest,  for  Edward's  face 
was  flushed,  and  Gloucester's  brow  was  perturbed  and  sullen. 

"Now  Heaven  be  praised!"  cried  the  King,  extending  to 
Richard  the  letter  which  communicated  the  flight  of  the  disaf- 
fected lords.  "We  have  two  enemies  the  less  in  our  roiaulme, 
and  many  a  barony  the  more  to  confiscate  to  our  kingly  wants. 
Ha!  ha!  these  Lancastrians  only  serve  to  enrich  us.  Frown- 
ing still,  Richard;  smile,  boy!" 

"  Foi  de  man  dme,  Edward,"  said  Richard,  with  a  bitter 
energy,  strangely  at  variance  with  his  usual  unctuous  defer- 
ence to  the  King,  "your  Highness's  gayety  is  ill-seasoned;  you 
reject  all  the  means  to  assure  your  throne;  you  rejoice  in  all 
the  events  that  imperil  it.  I  prayed  you  to  lose  not  a  moment 
in  conciliating,  if  possible,  the  great  lord  whom  you  own  you 
have  wronged,  and  you  replied  that  you  would  rather  lose  your 
crown  than  win  back  the  arm  that  gave  it  you." 

' '  Gave  it  me !  An  error,  Richard !  that  crown  was  at  once 
the  heritage  of  my  own  birth,  and  the  achievement  of  my  own 
sword.  But  were  it  as  you  say,  it  is  not  in  a  king's  nature  to  bear 
the  presence  of  a  power  more  formidable  than  his  own ;  to  sub- 
mit to  a  voice  that  commands  rather  than  counsels;  and  the 
happiest  chance  that  ever  befell  me  is  the  exile  of  this  Earl. 
How,  after  what  hath  chanced,  can  I  ever  see  his  face  again 
without  humiliation,  or  he  mine  without  resentment?" 

"So  you  told  me  anon,  and  I  answered,  If  that  be  so,  and 


THE    LAST    OF    T1IK    JiAKONS. 

your  Highness  shrinks  from  the  man  you  have  injured,  beware 
at  least  that  Warwick,  if  he  may  not  return  as  a  friend,  come 
not  back  as  an  irresistible  foe.  If  you  will  not  conciliate, 
crush !  Hasten  by  all  the  arts  to  separate  Clarence  from  War- 
wick. Hasten  to  prevent  the  union  of  the  Earl's  popularity 
and  Henry's  rights.  Keep  eye  upon  all  the  Lancastrian  lords, 
and  see  that  none  quit  the  realm,  where  they  are  captives,  to 
join  a  camp  where  they  can  rise  into  leaders.  And  at  the  very 
moment  I  urge  you  to  place  strict  watch  upon  Oxford,  to  send 
your  swiftest  riders  to  seize  Jasper  of  Pembroke,  you  laugh 
with  glee  to  hear  that  Oxford  and  Pembroke  are  gone  to  swell 
the  army  of  your  foes!" 

"Better  foes  out  of  my  realm  than  in  it,"  answered  Edward, 
dryly. 

"My  liege,  I  say  no  more";  and  Richard  rose.  "I  would 
forestall  a  danger;  it  but  remains  for  me  to  share  it." 

The  King  was  touched.  "Tarry  yet,  Richard,"  he  said; 
and  then,  fixing  his  brother's  eye,  he  continued,  with  a  half- 
smile  and  a  heightened  color:  "Though  we  know  thee  true  and 
leal  to  us,  we  yet  know  also,  Richard,  that  thou  hast  personal 
interest  in  thy  counsels.  Thou  wouldst,  by  one  means  or  an- 
other, soften  or  constrain  the  Earl  into  giving  thee  the  hand  of 
Anne.  Well,  then,  grant  that  Warwick  and  Clarence  expel 
King  Edward  from  his  throne,  they  may  bring  a  bride  to  con- 
sole thee  for  the  ruin  of  a  brother." 

"Thou  hast  no  right  to  taunt  or  to  suspect  me,  my  liege," 
returned  Richard,  with  a  quiver  in  his  lip.  "Thou  hast  in- 
cluded me  in  thy  meditated  wrong  to  Warwick;  and  had  that 
wrong  been  done — " 

"  Peradventure  it  had  made  thee  espouse  Warwick's 
quarrel?" 

"Bluntly,  yes!"  exclaimed  Richard,  almost  fiercely,  and 
playing  with  his  dagger.  "But  (he  added,  with  a  sudden 
change  of  voice)  I  understand  and  know  thee  better  than  the 
Earl  did  or  could.  I  know  that  in  thee  is  but  thoughtless  im- 
pulse, haste  of  passion,  the  habit  kings  form  of  forgetting  all 
things  save  the  love  or  hate,  the  desire  or  anger,  of  a  moment. 
Thou  hast  told  me  thyself,  and  with  tears,  of  thy  offence ;  thou 
hast  pardoned  my  boyish  burst  of  anger;  I  have  pardoned 
thy  evil  thought;  thou  hast  told  me  thyself  that  another  face 
has  succeeded  to  the  brief  empire  of  Anne's  blue  eye,  and 
hast  further  pledged  me  thy  kingly  word,  that  if  I  can  yet  com- 
pass the  hand  of  a  cousin,  dear  to  me  from  childhood,  thou  wilt 
confirm  the  union." 


THE   LAST   OF    THE   BARONS.  443 

"It  is  true,"  said  Edward.  "But  if  thou  wed  thy  bride, 
keep  her  aloof  from  the  court — nay,  frown  not,  my  boy,  I  mean 
simply  that  I  would  not  blush  before  my  brother's  wife  !  " 

Richard  bowed  low  in  order  to  conceal  the  expression  of  his 
face,  and  went  on  without  further  notice  of  the  explanation  : 

"  And  all  this  considered,  Edward,  I  swear  by  Saint  Paul, 
the  holiest  saint  to  thoughtful  men,  and  by  St.  George,  the 
noblest  patron  to  high-born  warriors,  that  thy  crown  and  thine 
honor  are  as  dear  to  me  as  if  they  were  mine  own.  Whatever 
sins  Richard  of  Gloucester  may  live  to  harbor  and  repent,  no 
man  shall  ever  say  of  him  that  he  was  a  recreant  to  the  honor 
of  his  country,*  or  slow  to  defend  the  rights  of  his  ancestors 
from  the  treason  of  a  vassal  or  the  sword  of  a  foreign  foe. 
Therefore,  I  say  again,  if  thou  reject  my  honest  counsels — if 
thou  suffer  Warwick  to  unite  with  Lancaster  and  France — if  the 
ships  of  Louis  bear  to  your  shores  an  enemy,  the  might  of 
whom  your  reckless  daring  undervalues,  foremost  in  the  field 
of  battle,  nearest  to  your  side  in  exile,  shall  Richard  Plan- 
tagenet  be  found  ! " 

These  words,  being  uttered  with  sincerity,  and  conveying  a 
promise  never  forfeited,  were  more  impressive  than  the  subtlest 
eloquence  the  wily  and  accomplished  Gloucester  ever  employed 
as  the  cloak  to  guile,  and  they  so  affected  Edward  that  he 
threw  his  arms  around  his  brother  ;  and  after  one  of  those 
bursts  of  emotion  which  were  frequent  in  one  whose  feelings 
were  never  deep  and  lasting,  but  easily  aroused  and  warmly 
spoken,  he  declared  himself  ready  to  listen  to-  and  adopt  all 
means  which  Richard's  art  could  suggest  for  the  better  main- 
tenance of  their  common  weal  and  interests. 

And  then,  with  that  wondrous,  if  somewhat  too  restless  and 
over-refining,  energy  which  belonged  to  him,  Richard  rapidly 
detailed  the  scheme  of  his  profound  and  dissimulating  policy. 
His  keen  and  intuitive  insight  into  human  nature  had  shown  him 
the  stern  necessity  which,  against  their  very  will,  must  unite 
Warwick  with  Margaret  of  Anjou.  His  conversation  with 
Montagu  had  left  no  doubt  of  that  peril  on  his  penetrating 
mind.  He  foresaw  that  this  union  might  be  made  durable  and 
sacred  by  the  marriage  of  Anne  and  Prince  Edward  ;  and  to 
defeat  this  alliance  was  his  first  "object,  partly  through  Clar- 
ence, partly  through  Margaret  herself.  A  gentlewoman  in  the 
Duchess  of  Clarence's  train  had  been  arrested  on  the  point  of 
embarking  to  join  her  mistress.  Richard  had  already  seen  and 

*  So  Lord  Hacon  observes  of  Richard,  with  that  discrimination,  even  in  the  strongest 
censure,  of  which  profound  judges  of  mankind  are  alone  capable,  that  he  was  "  a  king 
jealous  of  the  honor  of  the  English  nation." 


444  T1IR   LAST   OF   THE 

conferred  with  this  lady,  whoso  ambition,  duplicity,  and  talent 
tor  intrigue  were  known  to  him.  Having  secured  her  by 
promises  of  the  most  lavish  dignities  and  rewards,  he  proposed 
that  she  should  be  permitted  to  join  the  Duchess  with  secret 
messages  to  Isabel  and  the  Duke,  warning  them  both  that  War- 
wick and  Margaret  would  forget  their  past  feud  in  present 
sympathy,  and  that  the  rebellion  against  King  Edward,  instead 
of  placing  them  on  the  throne,  would  humble  them  to  be  sub- 
ordinates and  aliens  to  the  real  profilers — the  Lancastrians.* 
He  foresaw  what  effect  these  warnings  would  have  upon  the 
vain  Duke  and  the  ambitious  Isabel,  whose  character  was 
known  to  him  from  childhood.  He  startled  the  King  by  in- 
sisting upon  sending,  at  the  same  time,  a  trusty  diplomatist  to 
Margaret  of  Anjou,  proffering  to  give  the  Princess  Elizabeth 
(betrothed  to  Lord  Montagu's  son)  to  the  young  Prince  Ed- 
ward, f  Thus,  if  the  King,  who  had  as  yet  no  son,  were  to 
die,  Margaret's  son,  in  right  of  his  wife,  as  well  as  in  that  of 
his  own  descent,  would  peaceably  ascend  the  throne.  "  Need 
I  say  that  I  mean  not  this  in  sad  and  serious  earnest,"  observed 
Richard,  interrupting  the  astonished  King — "  I  mean  it  but  to 
amuse  the  Anjouite,  and  to  deafen  her  ears  to  any  overtures 
from  Warwick.  If  she  listen,  we  gain  time — that  time  will  in- 
evitably renew  irreconcilable  quarrel  between  herself  and  the 
Earl.  His  hot  temper  and  desire  of  revenge  will  not  brook 
delay.  He  will  land,  unsupported  by  Margaret  and  her  parti- 
sans, and  without  any  fixed  principle  of  action  which  can 
strengthen  force  by  opinion." 

"You  are  right,  Richard,"  said  Edward,  whose  faithless 
cunning  comprehended  the  more  sagacious  policy  it  could  not 
originate.  "  All  be  it  as  you  will  !" 

"And  in  the  mean  while,"  added  Richard,  "  watch  well,  but 
anger  not,  Montagu  and  the  Archbishop.  It  were  dangerous 
to  seem  to  distrust  them  till  proof  be  clear.  It  were  dull  to 
believe  them  true.  I  go  at  once  to  fulfil  my  task." 

CHAPTER  VII. 

WARWICK    AND    HIS   FAMILY   IN   EXILE. 

WE  now  summon  the  reader  on  a  longer  if  less  classic  jour- 
ney than  from  Thebes  to  Athens,  and  waft  him  on  a  rapid  wing 
from  Shene  to  Amboise.  We  must  suppose  that  the  two  emis- 

*  C-inines,  3.  c.  5  ;  Hall  ;  Hollinshed. 

t  "  Original  Letters  from  Harleian  MSS."     Edited  by  Sir  H.  Ellis  (Second  Series). 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  445 

saries  of  Gloucester  have  already  arrived  at  their  several  des- 
tinations— the  lady  has  reached  Isabel  ;  the  envoy,  Margaret. 

In  one  of  the  apartments  appropriated  to  the  Earl  in  the 
royal  palace,  within  the  embrasure  of  a  vast  Gothic  casement, 
sat  Anne  of  Warwick  ;  the  small  wicket  in  the  window  was 
open,  and  gave  a  view  of  a  wide  and  fair  garden,  interspersed 
with  thick  bosquets,  and  regular  alleys,  over  which  the  rich 
skies  of  the  summer  evening,  a  little  before  sunset,  cast  alter- 
nate light  and  shadow.  Towards  this  prospect  the  sweet  face 
of  the  Lady  Anne  was  turned  musingly.  The  riveted  eye,  the 
bended  neck,  the  arms  reclining  on  the  knee,  the  slender  fin- 
gers interlaced — gave  to  her  whole  person  the  character  of  rev- 
ery  and  repose. 

In  the  same  chamber  were  two  other  ladies  ;  the  one  was 
pacing  the  floor  with  slow  but  uneven  steps,  with  lips  moving 
from  time  to  time,  as  if  in  self-commune,  with  the  brow  con- 
tracted slightly  ;  her  form  and  face  took  also  the  character  of 
revery,  but  not  of  repose. 

The  third  female  (the  gentle  and  lovely  mother  of  the  other 
two)  was  seated,  towards  the  centre  of  the  room,  before  a  small 
table  on  which  rested  one  of  those  religious  manuscripts,  full 
of  the  moralities  and  the  marvels  of  cloister  sanctity,  which 
made  so  large  a  portion  of  the  literature  of  the  monkish  ages. 
But  her  eye  rested  not  on  the  Gothic  letter  and  the  rich  blazon 
of  the  holy  book.  With  all  a  mother's  fear,  and  all  a  moth- 
er's fondness,  it  glanced  from  Isabel  to  Anne,  from  Anne  to 
Isabel,  till  at  length,  in  one  of  those  soft  voices,  so  rarely 
heard,  which  makes  even  a  stranger  love  the  speaker,  the  fair 
Countess  said  : 

"Come  hither,  my  child,  Isabel,  give  me  thy  hand,  and 
whisper  me  what  hath  chafed  thee." 

"  My  mother,"  replied  the  Duchess,  "it  would  become  me 
ill  to  have  a  secret  not  known  to  thee,  and  yet,  methinks,  it 
would  become  me  less  to  say  aught  to  provoke  thine  anger." 

"  Anger,  Isabel  !  who  ever  knew  anger  for  those  they  love?" 

"  Pardon  me,  my  sweet  mother,"  said  Isabel,  relaxing  her 
haughty  brow,  and  she  approached  and  kissed  her  mother's 
cheek. 

The  Countess  drew  her  gently  to  a  seat  by  her  side — 

"  And  now  tell  me  all — unless,  indeed,  thy  Clarence  hath, 
in  some  lover's  hasty  mood,  vexed  thy  affection  ;  for  of  the 
household  secrets,  even  a  mother  should  not  question  the  true 
wife." 

Isabel  paused,  and  glanced  significantly  at  Anne, 


446  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"Nay — see!"  said  the  Countess,  smiling,  though  sadly — 
SAe,  too,  hath  thoughts  that  she  will  not  tell  to  me  ;  but  they 
seem  not  such  as  should  alarm  my  fears  as  thine  do.  For  the 
moment  ere  I  spoke  to  thee,  thy  brow  frowned,  and  her  lip 
smiled.  She  hears  us  not — speak  on." 

"  Is  it  then  true,  my  mother,  that  Margaret  of  Anjou  is 
hastening  thither  ;  and  can  it  be  possible  that  King  Louis  can 
persuade  my  lord  and  father  to  meet,  save  in  the  field  of  battle, 
the  arch  enemy  of  our  house  ?  " 

"  Ask  the  Earl  thyself,  Isabel ;  Lord  Warwick  hath  no  con- 
cealment from  his  children.  Whatever  he  doth  is  ever  wisest, 
best,  and  knightliest — so,  at  least,  may  his  children  alway  deem!" 

Isabel's  color  changed,  and  her  eye  flashed.  But  ere  she 
could  answer,  the  arras  was  raised,  and  Lord  Warwick  entered. 
But  no  longer  did  the  hero's  mien  and  manner  evince  that  cor- 
dial and  tender  cheerfulness,  which,  in  all  the  storms  of  his 
changeful  life,  he  had  hitherto  displayed  when  coming  from 
power  and  danger,  from  council  or  from  camp,  to  man's  earthly 
paradise — a  virtuous  home. 

Gloomy  and  absorbed,  his  very  dress — which,  at  that  day, 
the  Anglo-Norman  deemed  it  a  sin  against  self-dignity  to  neg- 
lect— betraying,  by  its  disorder,  that  thorough  change  of  the 
whole  mind,  that  terrible  internal  revolution,  which  is  made 
but,  in  strong  natures,  by  the  tyranny  of  a  great  care  or  a 
great  passion,  the  Earl  scarcely  seemed  to  heed  his  Countess, 
who  rose  hastily,  but  stopped  in  the  timid  fear  and  reverence 
of  love  at  the  sight  of  his  stern  aspect ;  he  threw  himself  abrupt- 
ly on  a  seat,  passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  and  sighed  heavily. 

That  sigh  dispelled  the  fear  of  the  wife,  and  made  her  alive 
only  to  her  privilege  of  the  soother.  She  drew  near,  and,  plac- 
ing herself  on  the  green  rushes  at  his  feet,  took  his  hand  and 
kissed  it,  but  did  not  speak. 

The  Earl's  eyes  fell  on  the  lovely  face  looking  up  to  him 
through  tears  ;  his  brow  softened,  he  drew  his  hand  gently  from 
hers,  placed  it  on  her  head,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  God  and  Our  Lady  bless  thee,  sweet  wife  !  " 

Then,  looking  round,  he  saw  Isabel  watching  him  intently, 
and  rising  at  once,  he  threw  his  arm  round  her  waist,  pressed 
her  to  his  bosom,  and  said  :  "  My  daughter,  for  thee  and  thine, 
day  and  night  have  I  striven  and  planned  in  vain.  I  cannot  re- 
ward thy  husband  as  I  would — I  cannot  give  thee,  as  I  had 
hoped,  a  throne  !  " 

"  What  title  so  dear  to  Isabel,"  said  the  Countess,  "  as  that 
of  Lord  Warwick's  daughter  ?  " 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  447 

Isabel  remained  cold  and  silent,  and  returned  not  the  Earl's 
embrace. 

Warwick  was  happily  too  absorbed  In  his  own  feelings  to 
notice  those  of  his  child.  Moving  away,  he  continued,  as  he 
paced  the  room  (his  habit  in  emotion,  which  Isabel,  who  had 
many  minute  external  traits  in  common  with  her  father,  had 
unconsciously  caught  from  him): 

"  Till  this  morning,  I  hoped  still  that  my  name  and  services, 
that  Clarence's  popular  bearing  and  his  birth  of  Plantagenet, 
would  suffice  to  summon  the  English  people  round  our  stand- 
ard— that  the  false  Edward  would  be  driven,  on  our  landing, 
to  fly  the  realm  ;  and  that,  without  change  to  the  dynasty  of 
York,  Clarence,  as  the  next  male  heir,  would  ascend  the  throne. 
True,  I  saw  all  the  obstacles— all  the  difficulties  ;  I  was  warned 
of  them  before  I  left  England  :  but  still  I  hoped.  Lord  Ox- 
ford has  arrived  ;  he  has  just  left  me.  We  have  gone  over  the 
chart  of  the  way  before  us,  weighed  the  worth  of  every  name, 
for  and  against ;  and,  alas  !  I  cannot  but  allow  that  all  at- 
tempt to  place  the  younger  brother  on  the  throne  of  the  elder 
would  but  lead  to  bootless  slaughter,  and  irretrievable  defeat  !" 

"Wherefore  think  you  so,  my  lord!"  asked  Isabel,  in  evi- 
dent excitement.  "You own  retainers  are  sixty  thousand  :  an 
army  larger  than  Edward  and  all  his  lords  of  yesterday  can 
bring  into  the  field." 

"  My  child  !  "  answered  the  Earl,  with  the  profound  knowl- 
edge of  his  countrymen  which  he  had  rather  acquired  from  his 
English  heart,  than  from  any  subtlety  of  intellect,  "  armies 
may  gain  a  victory,  but  they  do  not  achieve  a  throne — unless, 
at  least,  they  enforce  a  slavery  :  and  it  is  not  for  me,  and  for 
Clarence,  to  be  the  violent  conquerors  of  our  countrymen  ;  but 
the  regenerators  of  a  free  realm,  corrupted  by  a  false  man's  rule." 

"  And  what,  then,"  exclaimed  Isabel — "  what  do  you  propose, 
my  father?  Can  it  be  possible  that  you  can  unite  yourself  with 
the  abhorred  Lancastrians — with  the  savage  Anjouite,  who  be- 
headed my  grandsire,  Salisbury  ?  Well  do  I  remember  your 
own  words :  '  May  God  and  St.  George  forget  me,  when  I  for- 
get those  gray  and  gory  hairs  !' ' 

Here  Isabel  was  interrupted  by  a  faint  cry  from  Anne,  who, 
unobserved  by  the  rest,  and,  hitherto  concealed  from  her 
father's  eye  by  the  deep  embrasure  of  the  window,  had  risen 
some  moments  before,  and  listened,  with  breathless  attention. 
to  the  conversation  between  Warwick  and  the  Duchess. 

"  It  is  not  true — it  is  not  true  !  "  exclaimed  Anne  passion- 
ately,  "  Margaret  disowns  the  inhuman  deed." 


448  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BAKONS. 

"  Thou  art  right,  Anne,"  said  Warwick  ;  "  though  I  guess  not 
how  thou  didst  learn  the  error  of  a  report  so  popularly  believed, 
that  till  of  late  I  never  questioned  its  truth.  King  Louis  as- 
sures me  solemnly,  that  that  foul  act  was  done  by  the  butcher 
Clifford  against  Margaret's  knowledge,  and,  when  known,  to 
her  grief  and  anger." 

"  And  you,  who  call  Edward  false,  can  believe  Louis  true  !  " 

"Cease,  Isabel,  cease  !  "  said  the  Countess.  "  Is  it  thus  my 
child  can  address  my  lord  and  husband?  Forgive  her,  beloved 
Richard." 

"  Such  heat  in  Clarence's  wife  misbeseems  her  not,"  an- 
swered Warwick.  "  And  I  can  comprehend  and  pardon  in  my 
haughty  Isabel  a  resentment  which  her  reason  must,  at  last, 
subdue  ;  for,  think  not,  Isabel,  that  it  is  without  dread  strug- 
gle and  fierce  agony  that  I  can  contemplate  peace  and  league 
with  mine  ancient  foe  ;  but  here  two  duties  speak  to  me  in 
voices  not  to  be  denied  :  my  honor  and  my  hearth,  as  noble 
and  as  man,  demand  redress,  and  the  weal  and  glory  of  my 
country  demand  a  ruler  who  does  not  degrade  a  warrior,  nor 
assail  a  virgin,  nor  corrupt  a  people  by  lewd  pleasures,  nor 
exhaust  a  land  by  grinding  imposts  ;  and  that  honor  shall  be  vin- 
dicated, and  that  country  shall  be  righted,  no  matter  at  what 
sacrifice  of  private  grief  and  pride." 

The  words  and  the  tone  of  the  Earl  for  a  moment  awed  even 
Isabel,  but  after  a  pause  she  said,  sullenly  :  "  And  for  this, 
then,  Clarence  hath  joined  your  quarrel,  and  shared  your  ex- 
ile ! — for  this  :  that  we  may  place  the  eternal  barrier  of  the  Lan- 
castrian line  between  himself  and  the  English  throne  !  " 

"  I  would  fain  hope,"  answered  the  Earl  calmly,  "  that 
Clarence  will  view  our  hard  position  more  charitably  than  thou. 
If  he  gain  not  all  that  I  could  desire,  should  success  crown  our 
arms,  he  will,  at  least,  gain  much  :  for  often  and  ever  did  thy 
husband,  Isabel,  urge  me  to  stern  measures  against  Edward, 
when  I  soothed  him  and  restrained.  Mart  Dieu  !  how  often 
did  he  complain  of  slight  and  insult  from  Elizabeth  and  her 
minions,  of  open  affront  from  Edward,  of  parsimony  to  his 
wants  as  prince — of  a  life,  in  short,  humble  and  made  bitter 
by  all  the  indignity  and  the  gall  which  scornful  power  can  in- 
flict on  independent  pride.  If  he  gain  not  the  throne,  he  will 
gain  at  least  the  succession,  in  thy  right,  to  the  baronies  of 
Beauchamp,  the  mighty  duchy  and  the  vast  heritage  of  York, 
the  vice-royalty  of  Ireland.  Never  prince  of  the  blood  had 
wealth  and  honors  equal  to  those  that  shall  await  thy  lord. 
For  the  rest,  I  drew  him  not  into  my  quarrel — long  before, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  449 

would  he  have  drawn  me  into  his ;  nor  doth  it  become  thee, 
Isabel,  as  child  and  as  sister,  to  repent,  if  the  husband  of  my 
daughter  felt  as  brave  men  feel,  without  calculation  of  gain  and 
profit,  the  insult  offered  to  his  lady's  house.  But,  if  here  I 
overgauge  his  chivalry  and  love  to  me  and  mine,  or  discontent 
his  ambition  and  his  hopes,  Mort  Dieu!  we  hold  him  not  u 
captive  Edward  will  hail  his  overtures  of  peace;  let  him 
make  terms  with  his  brother,  and  return." 

"I  will  report  to  him  what  you  say,  my  lord,"  said  Isabel, 
with  cold  brevity;  and  bending  her  haughty  head  in  formal 
reverence,  she  advanced  to  the  door.  Anne  sprang  forward 
and  caught  her  hand. 

"Oh,  Isabel!"  she  whispered;  "in  our  father's  sad  and 
gloomy  hour  can  you  leave  him  thus?"  and  the  sweet  lady  burst 
into  tears. 

"Anne,"  retorted  Isabel  bitterly  "thy  heart  is  Lancastrian; 
and  what,  peradventure,  grieves  my  father,  hath  but  joy  for 
thee." 

Anne  drew  back,  pale  and  trembling,  and  her  sister  swept 
from  the  room. 

The  Earl,  though  he  had  not  overheard  the  whispered  sen- 
tences which  passed  between  his  daughters,  had  watched  them 
closely,  and  his  lip  quivered  with  emotion,  as  Isabel  closed  the 
door. 

"Come  hither,  my  Anne,"  he  said  tenderly  "thou,  who 
hast  thy  mother's  face,  never  hast  a  harsh  thought  for  thy 
father." 

As  Anne  threw  herself  on  Warwick's  breast,  he  continued: 
"And  how  earnest  thou  to  learn  that  Margaret  disowns  a  deed 
that,  if  done  by  her  command,  would  render  my  union  with 
her  cause  a  sacrilegious  impiety  to  the  dead?" 

Anne  colored,  and  nestled  her  head  still  closer  to  her  father's 
bosom.  Her  mother  regarded  her  confusion  and  her  silence 
with  an  anxious  eye. 

The  wing  of  the  palace  in  which  the  Earl's  apartments  were 
situated  was  appropriated  to  himself  and  household,  flanked 
to  the  left  by  an  abutting  pile  containing  state-chambers  never 
used  by  the  austere  and  thrifty  Louis,  save  on  great  occasions 
of  pomp  or  revel;  and,  as  we  have  before  observed,  looking  on 
a  garden  which  was  generally  solitary  and  deserted.  From 
this  garden,  while  Anne  yet  strove  for  words  to  answer  her 
father,  and  the  Countess  yet  watched  her  embarrassment,  sud- 
denly came  the  soft  strain  of  a  Provencal  lute ;  while  a  low 
yojce,  rich,  and  modulated  at  once  by  a  deep  feeling  and  an 


450  THE    LAST    Of    THE    BARONS. 

;  X'juisite  art  that  would  have  given  effect  to  even  simpler  words, 
breathed. 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  HEIR  OF  LANCASTER. 

"  His  birthright  but  a  Father's  name, 

A  Grandsire's  hero-sword  ; 
He  dwelt  within  the  Stranger's  land, 
The  friendless,  homeless  Lord  ! 

Yet  one  dear  hope,  too  dear  to  tell, 

Consoled  the  exiled  man  ; 
The  Angels  have  their  home  in  Heaven 

And  gentle  thoughts  in  Anne." 

At  that  name  the  voice  of  the  singer  trembled,  and  paused  a 
moment;  the  Earl,  who  at  first  had  scarcely  listened  to  what 
he  deemed  but  the  ill-seasoned  gallantry  of  one  of  the  royal 
minstrels,  started  in  proud  surprise,  and  Anne  herself,  tighten- 
ing her  clasp  round  her  father's  neck,  burst  into  passionate 
sobs.  The  eye  of  the  Countess  met  that  of  her  lord,  but  she 
put  her  finger  to  her  lips  in  sign  to  him  to  listen.  The  song 
was  resumed: 

"  Recall  the  single  sunny  time, 

In  childhood's  April  weather, 
When  he  and  thou,  the  boy  and  girl, 
Roved,  hand  in  hand,  together  ; 

When  round  thy  young  companion  knelt 

The  Princes  of  the  Isle  ; 
And  Priest  and  People  pray'd  their  God 

On  England's  Heir  to  smile. " 

The  Earl  uttered  a  half-stifled  exclamation,  but  the  minstrel 
heard  not  the  interruption,  and  continued: 

"  Methinks  the  sun  hath  never  smil'd 

Upon  the  exiled  man, 
Like  that  bright  morning  when  the  boy 
Told  all  his  soul  to  Anne. 

No  ;  while  his  birthright  but  a  name, 

A  grandsire's  hero-sword, 
He  would  not  woo  the  lofty  maid 

To  love  the  banish'd  lord. 

But  when,  with  clarion,  fife,  and  drum, 

He  claims  and  wins  his  own  ; 
When  o'er  the  Deluge  drifts  his  ark, 

To  rest  upon  a  throne — 

THEN,  wilt  thou  deign  to  hear  the  hope 

That  blessed  the  exiled  man, 
When  pining  for  his  father's  crown. 

To  deck  the  brows  of  Anne  !  " 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  451 

The  song  ceased,  and  there  was  silence  within  the  chamber, 
broken  but  by  Anne's  low,  yet  passionate  weeping.  The  Earl 
gently  strove  to  disengage  her  arms  from  his  neck,  but  she, 
mistaking  his  intention,  sank  on  her  knees,  and  covering  her 
face  with  her  hands,  exclaimed: 

"Pardon! — pardon! — pardon  him  if  not  me!" 

"What  have  I  to  pardon?  What  hast  thou  concealed  from 
me?  Can  I  think  that  thou  hast  met,  in  secret,  one  who — " 

"In  secret!  Never — never,  father!  This  is  the  third  time 
only  that  I  have  heard  his  voice  since  we  have  been  at  Amboise, 
save  when — save  when — " 

"Go  on." 

"Save  when  King  Louis  presented  him  to  me  in  the  revel, 

under  the  name  of  the  Count  de  F ,  and  he  asked  me  if  I 

could  forgive  his  mother  for  Lord  Clifford's  crime." 

"It  is,  then,  as  the  rhyme  proclaimed;  and  it  is  Edward  of 
Lancaster  who  loves  and  woos  the  daughter  of  Lord  Warwick!" 

Something  in  her  father's  voice  made  Anne  remove  her  hands 
from  her  face,  and  look  up  to  him  with  a  thrill  of  timid  joy. 
Upon  his  brow,  indeed,  frowned  no  anger;  upon  his  lip  smiled 
no  scorn.  At  that  moment  all  his  haughty  grief  at  the  curse 
of  circumstance,  which  drove  him  to  his  hereditary  foe,  had 
vanished.  Though  Montagu  had  obtained  from  Oxford  some 
glimpse  of  the  desire  which  the  more  sagacious  and  temperate 
Lancastrians  already  entertained  for  that  alliance,  and  though 
Louis  had  already  hinted  its  expediency  to  the  Earl,  yet,  till 
now,  Warwick  himself  had  naturally  conceived  that  the  Prince 
shared  the  enmity  of  his  mother,  and  that  such  an  union, 
however  politic,  was  impossible ;  but  now,  indeed,  there  burst 
upon  him  the  full  tiiumph  of  revenge  and  pride.  Edward 
of  York  dared  to  woo  Anne  to  dishonor — Edward  of  Lancaster 
dared  not  even  woo  her  as  his  wife  till  his  crown  was  won! 
To  place  upon  the  throne  the  very  daughter  the  ungrateful 
monarch  had  insulted;  to  make  her  he  would  have  humbled 
not  only  the  instrument  of  his  fall,  but  the  successor  of  his 
purple;  to  unite  in  one  glorious  strife  the  wrongs  of  the  man 
and  the  pride  of  the  father — these  were  the  thoughts  that 
sparkled  in  the  eye  of  the  king-maker,  and  flushed  with  a  fierce 
rapture  the  dark  cheek,  already  hollowed  by  passion  and  care. 
He  raised  his  daughter  from  the  floor,  and  placed  her  in  her 
mother's  arms,  but  still  spoke  not. 

"This,  then,  was  thy  secret,  Anne,"  whispered  the  Coun- 
tess, "and  I  half-foreguessed  it,  when,  last  night,  I  knelt  beside 
thy  couch  to  pray,  and  overheard  thee  murmur  in  thy  dreams," 


452  THE    I, AST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

"  Sweet  mother,  thou  forgivest  me  ;  but  my  father — ah,  he 
speaks  not ! — One  word  !  Father,  father,  not  even  his  love 
could  console  me  if  I  angered  thee  !  " 

The  Earl,  who  had  remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  his  eyes 
shining  thoughtfully  under  his  dark  brows,  and  his  hand  slight- 
ly raised,  as  if  piercing  into  the  future,  and  mapping  out  its  airy 
realm,  turned  quickly  : 

"  1  go  to  the  heir  of  Lancaster  ;  if  this  boy  be  bold  and  true — 
worthy  of  England  and  of  thee — we  will  change  the  sad  ditty 
of  that  scrannel  lute  into  such  a  storm  of  trumpets  as  beseems 
the  triumph  of  a  conqueror,  and  the  marriage  of  a  prince  !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HOW    THE    HEIR    OF    LANCASTER    MEETS   THE    KING-MAKER. 

IN  truth,  the  young  Prince,  in   obedience  to  a  secret  mes- 
sage from  the  artful  Louis,  had  repaired  to  the  court  of  Amboise 

under  the  name  of  the  Count  de  F .     The  French  King  had 

long  before  made  himself  acquainted  with  Prince  Edward's  ro- 
mantic attachment  to  the  Earl's  daughter,  through  the  agent 
employed  by  Edward  to  transmit  his  portrait  to  Anne  at  Rouen  ; 
and  from  him,  probably,  came  to  Oxford  the  suggestion  which 
that  nobleman  had  hazarded  to  Montagu  ;  and  now  that  it  be- 
came his  policy  seriously  and  earnestly  to  espouse  the  cause  of 
his  kinswoman  Margaret,  he  saw  all  the  advantage  to  his  cold 
statecraft  which  could  be  drawn  from  a  boyish  love.  Louis 
had  a  well-founded  fear  of  the  warlike  spirit  and  military  tal- 
ents of  Edward  IV.  ;  and  this  fear  had  induced  him  hitherto  to 
refrain  from  openly  espousing  the  cause  of  the  Lancastrians, 
though  it  did  not  prevent  his  abetting  such  seditions  and  in- 
trigues as  could  confine  the  attention  of  the  martial  Plantage- 
net  to  the  perils  of  his  own  realm.  But  now  that  the  breach 
between  Warwick  and  the  King  had  taken  place  ;  now  that  the 
Earl  could  no  longer  curb  the  the  desire  of  the  Yorkist  monarch 
to  advance  his  hereditary  claims  to  the  fairest  provinces  of 
France — nay,  peradventure,  to  France  itself — while  the  defec- 
tion of  Lord  Warwick  gave  to  the  Lancastrians  the  first  fair 
hope  of  success  in  urging  their  own  pretensions  to  the  English 
throne — the  bent  of  all  the  powers  of  his  intellect  and  his  will 
towards  the  restoration  of  a  natural  ally  and  the  downfall  of  a 
dangerous  foe.  But  he  knew  that  Margaret  and  her  Lancas- 
trian favorers  could  not  of  themselves  suffice  to  achieve  a  revo- 
lution j  and,  they  ppuld  only  succeed  under  cover  of  the  popu- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  453 

larity  and  the  power  of  Warwick,  while  he  perceived  all  the  art 
it  would  require  to  make  Margaret  forego  her  vindictive  nature 
and  long  resentment,  and  to  supple  the  pride  of  the  great  Earl 
into  recognizing,  as  a  sovereign,  the  woman  who  had  branded 
him  as  a  traitor. 

Long  before  Lord  Oxford's  arrival,  Louis,  with  all  that  ad- 
dress which  belonged  to  him,  had  gradually  prepared  the  Earl 
to  familiarize  himself  to  the  only  alternative  before  him,  save 
that,  indeed,  of  powerless  sense  of  wrong,  and  obscure  and 
lasting  exile.  The  French  King  looked  with  more  uneasiness 
to  the  scruples  of  Margaret  ;  and  to  remove  these  he  trusted 
less  to  his  own  skill,  than  to  her  love  for  her  only  son. 

His  youth  passed  principally  in  Anjou — that  court  of  min- 
strels— young  Edward's  gallant  and  ardent  temper  had  become 
deeply  imbued  wi'.h  the  southern  poetry  and  romance.  Per- 
haps, the  very  feud  between  his  House  and  Lord  Warwick's, 
though  both  claimed  their  common  descent  from  John  of  Gaunt, 
had  tended,  by  the  contradictions  in  the  human  heart,  to  en- 
dear to  him  the  recollection  of  the  gentle  Anne.  He  obeyed 
with  joy  the  summons  of  Louis,  repaired  to  the  court,  was  pre- 
sented to  Anne  as  the  Count  de  F ,  found  himself  recog- 
nized at  the  first  glance  (for  his  portrait  still  lay  upon  hei 
heart,  as  his  remembrance  in  its  core),  and  twice  before  the 
song  we  have  recited  had  ventured,  agreeably  to  the  sweet 
customs  of  Anjou,  to  address  the  lady  of  his  love,  under  the 
shade  of  the  starlit  and  summer  copses.  But  on  this  last  oc- 
casion he  had  departed  from  his  former  discretion  ;  hitherto  he 
had  selected  an  hour  of  deeper  night,  and  ventured  but  be- 
neath the  lattice  of  the  maiden's  chamber  when  the  rest  of  the 
palace  was  hushed  in  sleep.  And  the  fearless  declaration  of  his 
rank  and  love  now  hazarded  was  prompted  by  one  who  con- 
trived to  turn  to  grave  uses  the  wildest  whim  of  the  minstrel, 
the  most  romantic  enthusiasm  of  youth. 

Louis  had  just  learned  from  Oxford  the  result  of  his  inter- 
view with  Warwick.  And  about  the  same  time  the  French 
King  had  received  a  letter  from  Margaret,  announcing  her 
departure  from  the  Castle  of  Verdun  for  Tours,  where  she 
prayed  him  to  meet  her  forthwith,  and  stating  that  she  had 
received  from  England  tidings  that  might  change  all  her 
schemes,  and  more  than  ever  forbid  the  possibility  of  a  recon- 
ciliation with  the  Earl  of  Warwick. 

The  King  perceived  the  necessity  of  calling  into  immediate 
effect  the  aid  on  which  he  had  relied,  in  the  presence  and  pas- 
sion of  the  young  Prince.  He  sought  him  at  once  ;  he  fountf 


454  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

him  in  a  remote  part  of  the  gardens,  and  overheard  him  breath 
ing  to  himself  the  lay  he  had  just  composed. 

"  Pasquc  Dieu  !  "  said  the  King,  laying  his  hand  on  the  young 
man's  shoulder,  "  if  tlion  wilt  but  repeat  that  song  where  and 
•when  I  bid  thee,  I  promise  that  before  the  month  ends  Lord 
Wanvick  shall  pledge  thee  his  daughter's  hand  ;  and  before 
the  year  is  closed  thou  shall  sit  beside  Lord  Warwick's  daugh- 
ter in  the  halls  of  Westminster." 

And  the  royal  troubadour  took  the  counsel  of  the  King. 

The  song  had  ceased  ;  the  minstrel  emerged  from  the  bos- 
quets, and  stood  upon  the  sward,  as,  from  the  postern  of  the 
palace,  walked  with  a  slow  step  a  form  from  which  it  became 
him  not,  as  prince  or  as  lover,  in  peace  or  in  war,  to  shrink. 
The  first  stars  had  now  risen  ;  the  light,  though  serene,  was 
pale  and  dim.  The  two  men — the  one  advancing,  the  other 
motionless — gazed  on  each  other  in  grave  silence.  As  Count  de 

F ,  amidst  the  young  nobles  in  the  King's  train,  the  Earl  had 

scarcely  noticed  the  heir  of  England.  He  viewed  him  now  with 
a  different  eye  ;  in  secret  complacency,  for,  with  a  soldier's 
weakness,  the  soldier-baron  valued  men  too  much  for  their 
outward  seeming,  he  surveyed  a  figure  already  masculine  and 
stalwart,  though  still  in  the  graceful  symmetry  of  fair  eighteen. 

"  A  youth  of  goodly  presence,"  muttered  the  Earl,  "  with 
the  dignity  that  commands  in  peace,  aad  the  sinews  that  can 
strive  against  hardship  and  death  in  war." 

He  approached,  and  said  calmly:  "Sir  minstrel,  he  who 
woos  either  fame  or  beauty  may  love  the  lute,  but  should  wield 
the  sword.  At  least  so  methinks  had  the  Fifth  Henry  said  to 
him  who  boasts  for  his  heritage  the  sword  of  Agincourt." 

"Oh,  noble  Earl  !  "  exclaimed  the  Prince,  touched  by  words 
far  gentler  than  he  had  dared  to  hope,  despite  his  bold  and 
steadfast  mien,  and  giving  way  to  frank  and  graceful  emotion — 
"  Oh,  noble  Earl  !  since  thou  knowest  me — since  my  secret  is 
told — since,  in  that  secret,  I  have  proclaimed  a  hope  as  dear 
to  me  as  a  crown,  and  dearer  far  than  life,  can  I  hope  that  thy 
rebuke  but  veils  thy  favor,  and  that,  under  Lord  Warwick's 
eye,  the  grandson  of  Henry  V.  shall  approve  himself  worthy  of 
the  blood  that  kindles  in  his  veins  ?  " 

"  Fair  sir  and  Prince,"  returned  the  Earl,  whose  hardy  and 
generous  nature  the  emotion  and  fire  of  Edward  warmed  and 
charmed,  "  there  are,  alas  !  deep  memories  of  blood  and 
wrong — the  sad  deeds  and  wrathful  words  of  party  feud  and 
civil  war — between  thy  royal  mother  and  myself  ;  and  though 
we  may  unite  now  against  a  common  foe,  much  I  fear  that  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  455 

Lady  Margaret  would  brook  ill  a  closer  friendship,  a  nearer 
tie,  than  the  exigency  of  the  hour,  between  Richard  Nevile 
and  her  son." 

"No,  Sir  Earl;  let  me  hope  you  misthink  her.  Hot  and 
impetuous,  but  not  mean  and  treacherous,  the  moment  that 
she  accepts  the  service  of  thine  arm  she  must  forget  that  thou 
hast  been  her  foe ;  and  if  I,  as  my  father's  heir,  return  to  Eng- 
land, it  is  in  the  trust  that  a  new  era  will  commence.  Free 
from  the  passionate  enmities  of  either  faction,  Yorkist  and 
Lancastrian  are  but  Englishmen  to  me.  Justice  to  all  who 
serve  us,  pardon  for  all  who  have  opposed." 

The  Prince  paused,  and,  even  in  the  dim  light,  his  kingly 
aspect  gave  effect  to  his  kingly  words.  "And  if  this  resolve 
be  such  as  you  approve — if  you,  great  Earl,  be  that  which  even 
your  foes  proclaim,  a  man  whose  power  depends  less  on  lands 
and  vassals — broad  though  the  one,  and  numerous  though  the 
other — than  on  well-known  love  for  England,  her  glory  and 
her  peace,  it  rests  with  you  to  bury  forever  in  one  grave  the 
feuds  of  Lancaster  and  York !  What  Yorkist,  who  hath  fought 
at  Touton  or  St  Alban's,  under  Lord  Warwick's  standard,  will 
lift  sword  against  the  husband  of  Lord  Warwick's  daughter? 
What  Lancastrian  will  not  forgive  a  Yorkist,  when  Lord  War- 
wick, the  kinsman  of  Duke  Richard,  becomes  father  to  the 
Lancastrian  heir,  and  bulwark  to  the  Lancastrian  throne!  Oh, 
Warwick,  if  not  for  my  sake,  nor  for  the  sake  of  full  redress 
against  the  ingrate  whom  thou  repentest  to  have  placed  on  my 
father's  throne,  at  least  for  the  sake  of  England — for  the  heal- 
ing of  her  bleeding  wounds — for  the  union  of  her  divided 
people,  hear  the  grandson  of  Henry  V.,  who  sues  to  thee  for 
thy  daughter's  hand!" 

The  royal  wooer  bent  his  knee  as  he  spoke — the  mighty  sub- 
ject saw  and  prevented  the  impulse  of  the  Prince  who  had  for- 
gotten himself  in  the  lover;  the  hand  which  he  caught  he  lifted 
to  his  lips,  and  the  next  moment,  in  manly  and  soldier-like  em- 
brace, the  Prince's  young  arm  was  thrown  over  the  broad 
shoulder  of  the  king-maker. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   INTERVIEW    OF   EARL  WARWICK    AND   QUEEN    MARGARET. 

Louis  hastened  to  meet  Margaret  at  Tours;  thither  came  also 
her  father  Rene",  her  brother  John  of  Calabria,  Yolante  her  sis- 
ter, and  the  Count  of  Vaudemonte.  The  meeting  between 


456  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

the  Queen  and  Rene"  was  so  touching  as  to  have  drawn  tears 
to  the  hard  eyes  of  Louis  XI. ;  but,  that  emotion  over,  Mar- 
garet evinced  how  little  affliction  had  humbled  her  high  spirit, 
or  softened  her  angry  passions:  she  interrupted  Louis  m  every 
argument  for  reconciliation  with  Warwick.  '  'Not  with  honor  to 
myself,  and  to  my  son,"  she  exclaimed,  "can  I  pardon  that 
cruel  Earl — the  main  cause  of  King  Henry's  downfall!  In 
vain  patch  up  a  hollow  peace  between  us — a  peace  of  form  and 
parchment!  My  spirit  never  can  be  contented  with  him,  ne 
pardon!" 

For  several  days  she  maintained  a  language  which  betrayed 
the  chief  cause  of  her  own  impolitic  passions,  that  had  lost  htr 
crown.  Showing  to  Louis  the  letter  despatched  to  her,  proffer- 
ing the  hand  of  the  Lady  Elizabeth  to  her  son,  she  asked  "if 
that  were  not  a  more  profitable  party,"  *  and,  "if  it  were  neces- 
sary that  she  should  forgive — whether  it  were  not  more  queen- 
ly to  treat  with  Edward  than  with  a  two-fold  rebel?" 

In  fact,  the  Queen  would,  perhaps,  have  fallen  into  Glouces- 
ter's artful  snare,  despite  all  the  arguments  and  even  the  half- 
menances  \  of  the  more  penetrating  Louis,  but  for  a  counteract- 
ing influence  which  Richard  had  not  reckoned  upon.  Prince 
Edward,  who  had  lingered  behind  Louis,  arrived  from  Amboise, 
and  his  persuasions  did  more  than  all  the  representations  of 
the  crafty  King.  The  Queen  loved  her  son  with  that  intense- 
ness  which  characterizes  the  one  soft  affection  of  violent  nat- 
ures. Never  had  she  yet  opposed  his  most  childish  whim,  and 
he  now  spoke  with  the  eloquence  of  one  who  put  his  heart  and 
his  life's  life  into  his  words.  At  last,  reluctantly,  she  con- 
sented to  an  interview  with  Warwick.  The  Earl,  accompanied 
by  Oxford,  arrived  at  Tours,  and  the  two  nobles  were  led  into 
the  presence  of  Margaret  by  King  Louis. 

The  reader  will  picture  to  himself  a  room  darkened  by  thick 
curtains  drawn  across  the  casement,  for  the  proud  woman  wished 
not  the  Earl  to  detect  on  her  face  either  the  ravages  of  years 
or  the  emotions  of  offended  pride.  In  a  throne  chair,  placed 
on  the  dais,  sate  the  motionless  Queen,  her  hands  clasping 
convulsively,  the  arm  of  the  fauteuil,  her  features  pale  and 
rigid ;  and  behind  the  chair  leant  the  graceful  figure  of  her  son. 
The  person  of  the  Lancastrian  Prince  was  little  less  remarkable 

*  See,  for  this  curious  passage  of  secret  history,  Sir  H.  Ellis's  "  Original  Letters  from 
the  Harleian  MSS.,"  second  series,  vol.  i.,  letter  42. 

t  Louis  would  have  thrown  over  Margaret's  cause,  if  Warwick  had  demanded  it  ;  he  in- 
structed MM.  de  Concressault  and  Du  Plessis  to  assure  the  Earl  that  he  would  aid  him  to 
i  he  utmost  to  reconquer  England  either  for  the  Queen  Margaret  or  for  any  one  else  he 
chose  (ou  pour  qui  il  voudra). — For  that  he  loved  the  Earl  better  than  Margaret  or  her 
son. — Jir.nite,  t.  ix.  276. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  457 

than  that  of  his  hostile  namesake,  l?ut  its  character  was  dis- 
tinctly different.*  Spare,  like  Henry  V.,  almost  to  the  manly 
defect  of  leanness,  his  proportions  were  slight  to  those  which 
gave  such  portly  majesty  to  the  vast-chested  Edward,  but  they 
evinced  the  promise  of  almost  equal  strength ;  the  muscles 
hardened  to  iron  by  early  exercise  in  arms,  the  sap  of  youth 
never  wasted  by  riot  and  debauch:  his  short  purple  mante- 
line  trimmed  with  ermine,  was  embroidered  with  his  grandfath- 
er's favorite  device,  "the  silver  swan";  he  wore  on  his  breast  the 
badge  of  St.  George,  and  the  single  ostrich  plume,  which  made 
his  cognizance  as  Prince  of  Wales,  waved  over  a  fair  and  ample 
forehead,  on  which  were,  even  then,  traced  the  lines  of  musing 
thought  and  high  design;  his  chestnut  hair  curled  close  to  his 
noble  head :  his  eye  shone  dark  and  brilliant,  beneath  the  deep- 
set  brow,  which  gives  to  the  human  countenance  such  expres- 
sion of  energy  and  intellect — all  about  him,  in  aspect  and  mien, 
seemed  to  betoken  a  mind  riper  than  his  years,  a  masculine 
simplicity  of  taste  and  bearing,  the  earnest  and  grave  tempera- 
ment, mostly  allied,  in  youth,  to  pure  and  elevated  desires,  to 
an  honorable  and  chivalric  soul. 

Below  the  dais  stood  some  of  the  tried  and  gallant  gentlemen 
who  had  braved  exile  and  tasted  penury  in  their  devotion  to 
the  House  of  Lancaster,  and  who  had  now  flocked  once  more 
round  their  Queen,  in  the  hope  of  better  days.  There,  were 
the  Dukes  of  Exeter  and  Somerset,  their  very  garments  soiled 
and  threadbare — many  a  day  had  those  great  lords  hungered 
for  the  beggar's  crust  !  f  There,  stood  Sir  John  Fortescue,  the 
patriarch  authority  of  our  laws,  who  had  composed  his  famous 
treatise  for  the  benefit  of  the  young  Prince,  overfond  of  exercise 
with  lance  and  brand,  and  the  recreation  of  knightly  song. 
There,  were  Jasper  of  Pembroke,  and  Sir  Henry  Rous,  and 
the  Earl  of  Devon,  and  the  Knight  of  Lytton,  whose  house  had 
followed,  from  sire  to  son,  the  fortunes  of  the  Lancastrian 
Rose  ;  J  and,  contrasting  the  sober  garments  of  the  exiles,  shone 
the  jewels  and  cloth  of  gold  that  decked  the  persons  of  the 

*  "  According  to  some  of  the  French  chroniclers,  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who  was  one  of  the 
handsomest  and  most  accomplished  princes  in  Europe,  was  very  desirous  of  becoming  the 
husband  of  Anne  Nevile,"  etc. — Miss  Strickland,  "  Life  of  Margaret  of  Anjou." 

t  Philip  de  Comines  says  he  himself  had  seen  the  Dukes  of  Exeter  and  Somerset  in  the 
Low  Countries  in  as  wretched  a  plight  as  common  beggars. 

$  Sir  Robert  de  Lytton  (whose  grandfather  had  been  Comptroller  to  the  Household  of 
Henry  IV.,  and  Agister  of  the  Forests  allotted  to  Queen  Joan)  was  one  of  the  most  power- 
ful knights  of  the  time  ;  and  afterwards,  according  to  Perkin  Warbeck,  one  of  the  ministers 
most  trusted  by  Henry  VII.  He  was  Lord  of  Lvtton,  in  Derbyshire  (where  his  ancestors 
had  been  settled  since  the  Conquest),  of  Knebworth  in  Herts  (the  ancient  seat  and  manor 
of  Plantagenet  de  Brotherton,  Earl  of  Norfolk  and  Earl- Marshal),  of  Myndelesden  and 
Langley,  of  Standyarn,  Dene,  and  Brekesbome,  in  Northamptonshire,  and  became,  in  the 
reign  of  Henry  VII.,  Privy-Councillor,  Under-Treasurer,  and  Keeper  of  the  great  Wardrobe. 


458  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

more  prosperous  foreigners,  Ferri,  Count  of  Vaudemonte, 
Margaret's  brother,  the  Duke  of  Calabria,  and  the  powerful 
form  of  Sir  Pierre  de  Breze",  who  had  accompanied  Margaret 
in  her  last  disastrous  campaigns,  with  all  the  devotion  of  a 
chevalier  for  the  lofty  lady  adored  in  secret.  * 

When  the  door  opened  and  gave  to  the  eyes  of  those  proud 
exiles  the  form  of  their  puissant  enemy,  they  with  difficulty 
suppressed  the  murmur  of  their  resentment,  and  their  looks 
turned  with  sympathy  and  grief  to  the  hueless  face  of  their 
Queen. 

The  Earl  himself  was  troubled  ;  his  step  was  less  firm,  his 
crest  less  haughty,  his  eye  less  serenely  steadfast. 

But  beside  him,  in  a  dress  more  homely  than  that  of  the 
poorest  exile  there,  and  in  garb  and  in  aspect,  as  he  lives  for 
ever  in  the  portraiture  of  Victor  Hugo  and  our  own  yet  greater 
Scott,  moved  Louis,  popularly  called  "  The  Fell." 

"  Madame  and  cousin,"  said  the  King,  "  we  present  to  you 
the  man  for  whose  haute  courage  and  dread  fame  we  have  such 
love  and  respect,  that  we  value  him  as  much  as  any  king,  and 
would  do  as  much  for  him  as  for  man  living,f  and  with  my 
lord  of  Warwick,  see  also  this  noble  Earl  of  Oxford,  who,  though 
he  may  have  sided  awhile  with  the  enemies  of  your  Highness, 
comes  now  to  pray  your  pardon,  and  to  lay  at  your  feet  his 
sword." 

Lord  Oxford  (who  had  ever  unwillingly  acquiesced  in  the 
Yorkist  dynasty),  more  prompt  than  Warwick,  here  threw  him- 
self on  his  knees  before  Margaret,  and  his  tears  fell  on  her 
hand,  as  he  murmured  "  Pardon." 

"  Rise,  Sir  John  de  Vere,"  said  the  Queen,  glancing,  with  a 
flashing  eye,  from  Oxford  to  Lord  Warwick.  "Your  pardon 
is  right  easy  to  purchase,  for  well  I  know  that  you  yielded  but 
to  the  time — you  did  not  turn  the  time  against  us — you  and 
yours  have  suffered  much  for  King  Henry's  cause.  Rise,  Sir 
Earl." 

"And,"  said  a  voice,  so  deep  and  so  solemn,  that  it  hushed 
the  very  breath  of  those  who  heard  it, — "  and  has  Margaret  a 
pardon  also  for  the  man  who  did  more  than  all  others  to  de- 
throne King  Henry,  and  can  do  more  than  all  to  restore  his 
crown  ?" 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Margaret,  rising  in  her  passion,  and  casting 
from  her  the  hand  her  son  had  placed  upon  her  shoulder — 
"  Ha  !  Ownest  thou  thy  wrongs,  proud  lord  ?  Comest  thou 

*  See,  for  the  chivalrous  devotion  of  this  knight  (Seneschal  of  Normandy)  to   Margaret, 
Miss  Strickland's  Life  of  that  Queen, 
t  Ellis's  "  Original  Letters,"  vol.  i.,  letter  42,  second  seri»s- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  459 

at  last  to  kneel  at  Queen  Margaret's  feet?  Look  round  and 
behold  her  court — some  half-score  brave  and  unhappy  gentle- 
men, driven  from  their  hearths  and  homes,  their  heritage  the 
prey  of  knaves  and  varlets  ;  their  sovereign  in  a  prison  ;  their 
sovereign's  wife,  their  sovereign's  son,  persecuted  and  hunted 
from  the  soil  !  And  comest  thou  now  to  the  forlorn  majesty  of 
sorrow  to  boast — 'Such  deeds  were  mine'?" 

"  Mother  and  lady,"  began  the  Prince — 

"  Madden  me  not,  my  son.  Forgiveness  is  for  the  prosperous, 
not  for  adversity  and  woe." 

"  Hear  me,"  said  the  Earl,  who,  having  once  bowed  his  pride 
to  the  interview,  had  steeled  himself  against  the  passion  which, 
in  his  heart,  he  somewhat  despised  as  a  mere  woman's  burst  of 
inconsiderate  fury — "  For  I  have  this  right  to  be  heard  :  that 
not  one  of  these  knights,  your  lealest  and  noblest  friends,  can 
say  of  me,  that  I  ever  stooped  to  gloss  mine  acts,  or  palliate 
bold  deeds  with  wily  words.  Dear  to  me  as  comrade  in  arms — 
sacred  to  me  as  a  father's  head,  was  Richard  of  York,  mine 
uncle  by  marriage  with  Lord  Salisbury's  sister.  I  speak  not 
now  of  his  claims  by  descent  (for  those  even  King  Henry  could 
not  deny),  but  I  maintain  them,  even  in  your  Grace's  presence, 
to  be  such  as  vindicate,  from  disloyalty  and  treason,  me  and 
the  many  true  and  gallant  men  who  upheld  them  through  dan- 
ger, by  field  and  scaffold.  Error,  it  might  be,  but  the  error  of 
men  who  believed  themselves  the  defenders  of  a  just  cause. 
Nor  did  I,  Queen  Margaret,  lend  myself  wholly  to  my  kinsman's 
quarrel,  nor  share  one  scheme  that  went  to  the  dethronement 
of  King  Henry,  until — pardon  if  I  speak  bluntly  ;  it  is  my  wont, 
and  would  be  more  so  now,  but  for  thy  fair  face  and  woman's 
form,  which  awe  me  more  than  if  confronting  the  frown  of 
Coeur  de  Lion,  or  the  First  great  Edward — pardon  me,  I  say, 
if  I  speak  bluntly  and  aver,  that  I  was  not  King  Henry's  foe 
until  false  counsellors  had  planned  my  destruction,  in  body  and 
goods,  land  and  life.  In  the  midst  of  peace,  at  Coventry,  my 
father  and  myself  scarcely  escaped  the  knife  of  the  murderer.* 
In  the  streets  of  London,  the  very  menials  and  hangmen 
employed  in  the  service  of  your  Highness  beset  me  unarmed  ;  f 
a  little  time  after,  and  my  name  was  attainted  by  an  illegal 
Parliament.^  And  not  till  after  these  things  did  Richard 
Duke  of  York  ride  to  the  Hall  of  Westminster,  and  lay  his 
hand  upon  the  throne  ;  nor  till  after  these  things  did  I  and  my 


*  See  Hall  (236).  who  says  that  Margaret  had  laid  a  snare  for  Salisbury  and  Warwick 
Warwick,  and  "  if  they  had  not  suddenly  departed  their  life's  thread  had  been  broken. 


k.  at 


+  Hall.  Fabyan. 

t  "Parl.  Rolls,"  370  ;  W.  Wyr,  478. 


460  THE    LAST    OK    THK    BARONS. 

father  Salisbury  say  to  each  other  :  '  The  time  has  come  when 
neither  peace  nor  honor  can  be  found  for  us  under  King 
Henry's  reign.'  Blame  me,  if  you  will,  Queen  Margaret  ; 
reject  me,  if  you  need  not  my  sword  ;  but  that  which  1  did  in 
the  gone  days  was  such  as  no  nobleman  so  outraged  and 
despaired*  would  have  forborne  to  do, — remembering  that  Eng- 
land is  not  the  heritage  of  the  King  alone,  but  that  safety 
and  honor,  and  freedom  and  justice,  are  the  rights  of  his  Nor- 
man gentlemen,  and  his  Saxon  people.  And  rights  are  a  mock- 
ery and  a  laughter  if  they  do  not  justify  resistance,  whensoever, 
and  by  whomsoever,  they  are  invaded  and  assailed." 

It  had  been  with  a  violent  effort  that  Margaret  had  refrained 
from  interrupting  this  address,  which  had,  however,  produced 
no  inconsiderable  effect  upon  the  knightly  listeners  around  the 
dais.  And  now,  as  the  Earl  ceased,  her  indignation  was  arrested 
by  dismay  on  seeing  the  young  Prince  suddenly  leave  his  post 
and  advance  to  the  side  of  Warwick. 

"  Right  well  hast  thou  spoken,  noble  Earl  and  cousin — right 
well,  though  right  plainly.  And  I,"  added  the  Prince,  "  saving 
the  presence  of  my  Queen  and  mother — I,  the  representative 
of  my  sovereign  father,  in  his  name  will  pledge  thee  a  king's 
oblivion  and  pardon  for  the  past,  if  thou,  on  thy  side,  acquit 
my  princely  mother  of  all  privity  to  the  snares  against  thy  life 
and  honor  of  which  thou  hast  spoken,  and  give  thy  knightly 
word  to  be  henceforth  leal  to  Lancaster.  Perish  all  memories 
of  the  past  that  can  make  walls  between  the  souls  of  brave 
men  !  " 

Till  this  moment,  his  arms  folded  in  his  gown,  his  thin,  fox- 
like  face  bent  to  the  ground,  Louis  had  listened,  silent  and 
undisturbed.  He  now  deemed  it  the  moment  to  second  the 
appeal  of  the  Prince.  Passing  his  hand  hypocritically  over  his 
tearless  eyes,  the  King  turned  to  Margaret,  and  said: 

"  Joyful  hour  ! — happy  union  ! — May  Madame  La  Vierge 
and  Monseigneur  St.  Martin  sanctify  and  hallow  the  bond  by 
which  alone  my  beloved  kinswoman  can  regain  her  rights  and 
roiaulme.  Amen." 

Unheeding  this  pious  ejaculation,  her  bosom  heaving,  her 
eyes  wandering  from  the  Earl  to  Edward,  Margaret  at  last  gave 
vent  to  her  passion. 

"  And  is  it  come  to  this,  Prince  Edward  of  Wales,  that  thy 
mother's  wrongs  are  not  thine?  Standest  thou  side  by  side 
with  my  mortal  foe,  who,  instead  of  repenting  treason,  dares 
but  to  complain  of  injury?  Am  I  fallen  so  low  that  my  voice 

*  Warwick's  phrase— see  Sir  H.  Ellis's  "Original  Letters,"  vol.  i.,  second  series, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE   feARONS.  461 

to  pardon  or  disdain  is  counted  but  as  a  sough  of  idle  air  ! 
God  of  my  fathers,  hear  me  !  Willingly  from  my  heart  I  tear 
the  last  thought  and  care  for  the  pomps  of  earth.  Hateful  to 
me  a  crown  for  which  the  wearer  must  cringe  to  enemy 
and  rebel !  Away,  Earl  Warwick  !  Monstrous  and  unnatural 
seems  it  to  the  wife  of  captive  Henry,  to  see  thee  by  the  side 
of  Henry's  son  !  " 

Every  eye  turned  in  fear  to  the  aspect  of  the  Earl,  every  ear 
listened  for  the  answer  which  might  be  expected  from  his  well- 
known  heat  and  pride — an  answer  to  destroy  forever  the  last 
hope  of  the  Lancastrian  line.  But  whether  it  was  the  very 
consciousness  of  his  power  to  raise  or  to  crush  that  fiery  speaker, 
or  those  feelings  natural  to  brave  men,  half  of  chivalry,  half 
contempt,  which  kept  down  the  natural  anger  by  thoughts  of 
the  sex  and  sorrows  of  the  Anjouite,  or  that  the  wonted  irasci- 
bility of  his  temper  had  melted  into  one  steady  and  profound 
passion  of  revenge  against  Edward  of  York,  which  absorbed  all 
lesser  and  more  trivial  causes  of  resentment — the  Earl's  face, 
though  pale  as  the  dead,  was  unmoved  and  calm,  and,  with  a 
grave  and  melancholy  smile,  he  answered  : 

"  M  >re  do  I  respect  thee,  O  Queen,  for  the  hot  words  which 
show  a  truth  rarely  heard  from  royal  lips,  than  hadst  thou 
deigned  to  dissimulate  the  forgiveness  and  kindly  charity  which 
sharp  remembrance  permits  thee  not  to  feel  !  No,  pnncely 
Margaret,  not  yet  can  there  be  frank  amity  between  thee  and 
me  !  Nor  do  I  boast  the  affection  yon  gallant  gentlemen  have 
displayed.  Frankly,  as  thou  hast  spoken,  do  I  say,  that  the 
wrongs  I  have  suffered  from  another  alone  move  me  to  alle- 
giance to  thyself !  Let  others  serve  thee  for  love  of  Henry  — 
reject  not  my  service,  given  but  for  revenge  on  Edward — as 
much,  henceforth,  am  I  his  foe  as  formerly  his  friend  and 
maker  !  *  And  if,  hereafter,  on  the  throne,  thou  shouldst 
remember  and  resent  the  former  wars,  at  least,  thou  hast  owed 
me  no  gratitude,  and  thou  canst  not  grieve  my  heart,  and  seethe 
my  brain,  as  the  man  whom  I  once  loved  better  than  a  son  ! 
Thus  from  thy  presence  I  depart,  chafing  not  at  thy  scornful 
wrath — mindful,  young  Prince,  but  of  thy  just  and  gentle  heart, 
and  sure,  in  the  calm  of  my  own  soul  (on  which  this  much,  at 
least,  of  our  destiny  is  reflected  as  on  a  glass),  that  when,  high 
lady,  thy  colder  sense  returns  to  thee,  thou  wilt  see  that  the 
league  between  us  must  be  made  ! — that  thine  ire  as  wr-oian, 
must  fade  before  thy  duties  as  a  mother,  thy  affection  as  *  wife, 
and  thy  paramount  and  solemn  obligations  to  the  peopJ-  thou 

*  Sir  H,  Ellis's  "  Original  Letters,"  vol.  i.,  second  series. 


111K    LAST    OK    THK    liAKONii. 

bast  ruled  as  queen  !  In  the  dead  of  night,  thou  shall  hear  the 
voice  of  Henry,  in  his  prison,  asking  Margaret  to  set  him  free  ! 
The  vision  of  thy  son  shall  rise  before  thee  in  his  bloom  and 
promise,  to  demand,  '  Why  his  mother  deprives  him  of  a  crown  ? ' 
and  crowds  of  pale  peasants,  grinded  beneath  tyrannous  exac- 
tion, and  despairing  fathers  mourning  for  dishonored  children, 
shall  ask  the  Christian  Queen,  '  If  God  will  sanction  the  unrea- 
soning wrath  which  rejects  the  only  instrument  that  can  redress 
her  people?' " 

This  said,  the  Earl  bowed  his  head  and  turned  ;  but,  at  the 
first  sign  of  his  departure,  there  was  a  general  movement  among 
the  noble  bystanders.  Impressed  by  the  dignity  of  his  bear- 
ing, by  the  greatness  of  his  power,  and  by  the  unquestionable 
truth  that,  in  rejecting  him,  Mai^aret  cast  away  the  heritage  of 
her  son,  the  exiles,  with  a  common  impulse,  threw  themselves 
at  the  Queen's  feet,  and  exclaimed,  almost  in  the  same  words  : 

"  Grace  !  noble  Queen  !  Grace  for  the  great  Lord  War- 
wick !  " 

"  My  sister,"  whispered  John  of  Calabria,  "  thou  art  thy  son's 
ruin  if  the  Earl  depart  !  " 

"  Pasque  Dieu !  Vex  not  my  kinswoman — if  she  prefer  a 
convent  to  a  throne,  cross  not  the  holy  choice!"  said  the  wily 
Louis,  with  a  mocking  irony  on  his  pinched  lips. 

The  Prince  alone  spoke  not,  but  stood  proudly  on  the  same 
spot,  gazing  on  the  Earl,  as  he  slowly  moved  to  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Edward — Edward,  my  son  !  "  exclaimed  the  unhappy 
Margaret,  "  if  for  thy  sake — for  thine — I  must  make  the  past 
a  blank — speak  thou  for  me  !  " 

"I  have  spoken,"  said  the  Prince  gently,  "and  thou  didst 
chide  me,  noble  mother  ;  yet  I  spoke,  methinks,  as  Henry  V. 
had  done,  if  of  a  mighty  enemy  he  had  had  the  power  to  make 
a  noble  friend  ?" 

A  short,  convulsive  sob  was  heard  from  the  throne  chair  ; 
and,  as  suddenly  as  it  burst,  it  ceased.  Queen  Margaret  rose — 
not  a  trace  of  that  stormy  emotion  upon  the  grand  and  marble 
beauty  of  her  face.  Her  voice,  unnaturally  calm,  arrested  the 
steps  of  the  departing  Earl. 

"  Lord  Warwick,  defend  this  boy — restore  his  rights — release 
his  sainted  father — and  for  years  of  anguish  and  of  exile, 
Margaret  of  Anjou  forgives  the  champion  of  her  son  !  " 

In  an  instant  Prince  Edward  was  again  by  the  Earl's  side — 
a  moment  more,  and  the  Earl's  proud  k;:  bent  in  homage  to 
the  Queen — joyful  tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  her  friends  and 
kindred,  a  triumphant  smile  on  the  lips  of  Louis — and  Mar- 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  463 

garet's  face,  terrible  in  its  stony  and  lock'd  repose,  was  raised 
above,  as  if  asking  the  All-Merciful  pardon— -for  the  pardon 
which  the  human  sinner  had  bestowed  !  * 


CHAPTER  X. 

LOVE      AND      MARRIAGE — DOUBTS     OF     CONSCIENCE — DOMESTIC 
JEALOUSY — AND  HOUSEHOLD  TREASON. 

THE  events  that  followed  this  tempestuous  interview  were 
such  as  the  position  of  the  parties  necessarily  compelled.  The 
craft  of  Louis,  the  energy  and  love  of  Prince  Edward,  the  rep- 
resentations of  all  her  kindred  and  friends,  conquered,  though 
not  without  repeated  struggles,  Margaret's  repugnance  to  a 
nearer  union  between  Warwick  and  her  son.  The  Earl  did 
not  deign  to  appear  personally  in  this  matter.  He  left  it,  as 
became  him,  to  Louis  and  the  Prince,  and  finally  received 
from  them  the  proposals  which  ratified  the  league,  and  con- 
summated the  schemes  of  his  revenge. 

Upon  the  Very  Cross  f  in  St.  Mary's  Church  of  Angers,  Lord 
Warwick  swore  without  change  to  hold  the  party  of  King 
Henry.  Before  the  same  sacred  symbol,  King  Louis  and  his 
brother.  Duke  of  Guienne,  robed  in  canvas,  swore  to  sustain  to 
their  utmost  the  Earl  of  Warwick  in  behalf  of  King  Henry  ; 
and  Margaret  recorded  her  oath  to  treat  the  Earl  as  true  and 
faithful,  and  never  for  deeds  past  to  make  him  any  reproach. 

Then  were  signed  the  articles  of  marriage  between  Prince 
Edward  and  the  Lady  Anne — the  latter  to  remain  with  Mar- 
garet, but  the  marriage  not  to  be  consummated  "  till  Lord 
Warwick  had  entered  England  and  regained  the  realm,  or 
most  part,  for  King  Henry" — a  condition  which  pleased  the 
Earl,  who  desired  to  award  his  beloved  daughter  no  less  a 
dowry  than  a  crown. 

An  article  far  more  important  than  all  to  the  safety  of  the 
Earl,  and  to  the  permanent  success  of  the  enterprise,  was  one 
that  virtually  took  from  the  fierce  and  unpopular  Margaret  the 
reins  of  government,  by  constituting  Prince  Edward  (whose 
qualities  endeared  him  more  and  more  to  Warwick,  and  were 
such  as  promised  to  command  the  respect  and  love  of  the 
people),  sole  regent  of  all  the  realm,  upon  attaining  his  ma- 
jority. For  the  Duke  of  Clarence  were  reserved  all  the  lands 

*Miss  Strickland  observes  upon  this  interview:  "It  does  not  appear  that  Warwick 
mentioned  the  execution  of  his  father,  the  Earl  of  Salisbury,  which  is  almost  a  confirma-- 
tion  of  the  statements  of  those  historians  who  deny  that  he  was  beheaded  by  Margaret,1' 

t  Ellis's  "  Original  Letters  from  the  Harleian  MSS."  letter  42. 


464  THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS. 

and  dignities  of  the  Duchy  of  York,  the  right  to  the  succes- 
sion of  the  throne  to  him,  and  his  posterity — failing  male  heirs 
to  the  Prince  of  Wales — with  a  private  pledge  of  the  vice- 
royalty  of  Ireland. 

Margaret  had  attached  to  her  consent  one  condition  highly 
obnoxious  to  her  high-spirited  son,  and  to  which  he  was  only 
reconciled  by  the  arguments  of  Warwick :  she  stipulated  that 
he  should  not  accompany  the  Earl  to  England,  nor  appear 
there  till  his  father  was  proclaimed  King.  In  this,  no  doubt, 
she  was  guided  by  maternal  fears  and  by  some  undeclared  sus- 
picion either  of  the  good  faith  of  Warwick,  or  of  his  means  to 
raise  a  sufficient  army  to  fulfil  his  promise.  The  brave  Prince 
wished  to  be  himself  foremost  in  the  battles  fought  in  his 
right  and  for  his  cause.  But  the  Earl  contended,  to  the  sur- 
prise and  joy  of  Margaret,  that  it  best  behoved  tits  Prince's  in- 
terests to  enter  England  without  one  enemy  in  the  field,  leav- 
ing others  to  clear  his  path,  free  himself  from  all  the  personal 
hate  of  hostile  factions,  and  without  a  drop  of  blood  upon  the 
sword  of  one  heralded  and  announced  as  the  peace-maker,  and 
impartial  reconciler  of  all  feuds.  So  then  (these  high  condi- 
tions settled),  in  the  presence  of  the  Kings  Rene  and  Louis,  of 
the  Earl  and  Countess  of  Warwick,  and  in  solemn  state,  at  Am- 
boise,  Edward  of  Lancaster  plighted  his  marriage  troth  to  his 
beloved  and  loving  Anne. 

It  was  deep  night,  and  high  revel  in  the  Palace  of  Amboise 
crowned  the  ceremonies  of  that  memorable  day.  The  Earl  of 
Warwick  stood  alone  in  the  same  chamber  in  which  he  had 
first  discovered  the  secret  of  the  young  Lancastrian.  From 
the  brilliant  company,  assembled  in  the  halls  of  state,  he  had 
stolen  unperceived  away,  for  his  great  heart  was  full  to  over- 
flowing. The  part  he  had  played  for  many  days  was  over,  and 
with  it  the  excitement  and  the  fever.  His  schemes  were 
crowned;  the  Lancastrians  were  won  to  his  revenge;  the 
King's  heir  was  the  betrothed  of  his  favorite  child  ;  and  the 
hour  was  visible  in  the  distance  when,  by  the  retribution  most 
to  be  desired,  the  father's  hand  should  lead  that  child  to  the 
throne  of  him  who  would  have  degraded  her  to  the  dust.  If 
victory  awaited  his  sanguine  hopes,  as  father  to  his  future 
Queen,  the  dignity  and  power  of  the  Earl  became  greater  in 
the  court  of  Lancaster  than,  even  in  his  palmiest  day,  amidst 
the  minions  of  ungrateful  York ;  the  sire  of  two  lines — if 
Anne's  posterity  should  fail,  the  crown  would  pass  to  the  sons  of 
Isabel — in  either  case,  from  him  (if  successful  in  his  invasion) 
would  descend  the  royalty  of  England.  Ambition,  pride,  re* 


THE  LAST   Of  THE   BARONS.  465 

venge,  might  well  exult  in  viewing  the  future  as  mortal  wisdom 
could  discern  it.  The  house  of  Nevile  never  seemed  bright- 
ened by  a  more  glorious  star  :  and  yet  the  Earl  was  heavy 
and  sad  at  heart.  However  he  had  concealed  it  from  the  eyes 
of  others,  the  haughty  ire  of  Margaret  must  have  galled  him  in 
his  deepest  soul.  And  even  as  he  had  that  day  contemplated 
the  holy  happiness  in  the  face  of  Anne,  a  sharp  pang  had  shot 
through  his  breast.  Were  those  the  witnesses  of  fair-omened 
spousailles  ?  How  different  from  the  hearty  greeting  of  his 
warrior-friends  was  the  measured  courtesy  of  foes,  who  had 
felt  and  fled  before  his  sword  ?  If  aught  chanced  to  him,  in 
the  hazard  of  the  field,  what  thought  for  his  child  could  ever 
speak  in  pity  from  the  hard  and  scornful  eyes  of  the  imperi- 
ous Anjouite  ! 

The  mist  which  till  then  had  clouded  his  mind,  or  left 
visible  to  his  gaze  but  one  stern  idea  of  retribution,  melted  into 
air.  He  beheld  the  fearful  crisis  to  which  his  life  had  passed, 
he  had  reached  the  eminence  to  mourn  the  happy  gardens  left 
behind.  Gone,  forever  gone,  the  old  endearing  friendships,  the 
sweet  and  manly  remembrances  of  grave  companionship  and 
early  love  !  Who,  among  those  who  had  confronted  war  by  his 
side,  for  the  house  of  York,  would  hasten  to  clasp  his  hand  and 
hail  his  coming,  as  the  captain  of  hated  Lancaster  ?  True, 
could  he  bow  his  honor  to  proclaim  the  true  cause  of  his 
desertion,  the  heart  of  every  father  would  beat  in  sympathy 
with  his  ;  but  less  than  ever  could  the  tale  that  vindicated  his 
name  be  told.  How  stoop  to  invoke  malignant  pity  to  the  in- 
sult offered  to  a  future  queen  !  Dark  in  his  grave  must  rest 
the  secret  no  words  could  syllable,  save  by  such  vague  and 
mysterious  hint  and  comment  as  pass  from  baseless  gossip  into 
dubious  history.*  True,  that  in  his  change  of  party  he  was 
not,  like  Julian  of  Spain,  an  apostate  to  his  native  land.  He 
did  not  meditate  the  subversion  of  his  country  by  the  foreign 
foe,  it  was  but  the  substitution  of  one  English  monarch  for 
another — a  virtuous  Prince  for  a  false  and  a  sanguinary  King. 
True  that  the  change  from  rose  to  rose  had  been  so  common 
amongst  the  greatest  and  the  bravest,  that  even  the  most  rigid 
could  scarcely  censure  what  the  age  itself  had  sanctioned. 
But  what  other  man  of  his  stormy  day  had  been  so  conspicuous 
in  the  downfall  of  those  he  was  now  as  conspicuously  to  raise  ? 
What  other  man  had  Richard  of  York  taken  so  dearly  to  his 
heart — to  what  other  man  had  the  august  father  said  :  "  Protect 

*  Hall  well  explains  the  mystery  which  wrapped  the  King's  insult  to  a  female  of  the 
House  of  Warwick,  by  the  simple  sentence,  ''  the  certainty  was  not,  for  both  their  hon  >r», 
openly  known," 


466  THE   LAST    OF   THE    BARONS. 

my  sons"?  Before  him  seemed  literally  to  rise  the  phantom 
of  that  honored  prince,  and  with  clay-cold  lips  to  ask  :  "Art 
thou,  of  all  the  world,  the  doomsman  of  my  first-born  !  "  A 
groan  escaped  the  breast  of  the  self -tormentor  ;  he  fell  on  his 
knees,  and  prayed:  <1O,  pardon,  thou  All-seeing! — plead  for 
me,  Divine  Mother  !  if  in  this  I  have  darkly  erred,  taking  my 
heart  for  my  conscience,  and  mindful  only  of  a  selfish  wrong  ! 
Oh,  surely,  no  !  Had  Richard  of  York  himself  lived  to  know 
what  I  have  suffered  from  his  unworthy  son — causeless  insult, 
broken  faith,  public  and  unabashed  dishonor — yea,  pardoning, 
serving,  loving  on  through  all,  till,  at  the  last,  nothing  less  than 
the  foulest  taint  that  can  light  upon  'scutcheon  and  name  was 
the  cold,  premeditated  reward  for  uniired  devotion, — surely, 
surely  Richard  himself  had  said  :  'Thy  honor,  at  last,  forbids 
all  pardon  ' !  " 

Then,  in  that  rapidity  with  which  the  human  heart,  once 
seizing  upon  self-excuse,  reviews,  one  after  one,  the  fair 
apologies,  the  Earl  passed  from  the  injury  to  himself  to  the 
mai-government  of  his  land,  and  muttered  over  the  thousand 
instances  of  cruelty  and  misrule  which  rose  to  his  remembrance, 
forgetting,  alas,  or  steeling  himself  to  the  memory,  that  till 
Edward's  vices  had  assailed  his  own  hearth  and  honor,  he  had 
been  contented  with  lamenting  them,  he  had  not  ventured  to 
chastise.  At  length,  calm  and  self-acquitted,  he  rose  from  his 
self-confession,  and  leaning  by  the  open  casement,  drank  in 
the  reviving  and  gentle  balm  of  the  summer  air.  The  state 
apartments  he  had  left,  formed,  as  we  have  before  observed, 
an  angle  to  the  wing  in  which  the  chamber  he  had  now  retired 
to  was  placed.  They  were  brilliantly  illumined — their  windows 
open  to  admit  the  fresh  soft  breeze  of  night — and  he  saw,  as  if 
by  daylight,  distinct  and  gorgeous  in  their  gay  dresses,  the 
many  revellers  within.  But  one  group  caught  and  riveted  his 
eye.  Close  by  the  centre  window  he  recognized  his  gentle 
Anne,  with  downcast  looks  ;  he  almost  fancied  he  saw  her 
blush,  as  her  young  bridegroom,  young  and  beautiful  as  herself, 
whispered  love's  flatteries  in  her  ear.  He  saw  farther  on,  but 
yet  near,  his  own  sweet  Countess,  and  muttered :  "  After 
twenty  years  of  marriage  may  Anne  be  as  dear  to  him  as  thou 
art  now  to  me  ! "  And  still  he  saw,  or  deemed  he  saw,  his 
lady's  eye,  after  resting  with  tender  happiness  on  the  young 
pair,  rove  wistfully  around,  as  if  missing  and  searching  for  her 
partner  in  her  mother's  joy.  But  what  form  sweeps  by  with  so 
haughty  a  majesty,  then  pauses  by  the  betrothed,  addresses 
them  not,  but  seems  to  regard  them  with  so  fixed  a  watch  ? 


THE    LAST    OP    THE    BARONS.  467 

He  knew  by  her  ducal  diadem,  by  the  baudekin  colors  of  her 
robe,  by  her  unmistakable  air  of  pride,  his  daughter  Isabel. 
He  did  not  distinguish  the  expression  of  her  countenance,  but 
an  ominous  thrill  passed  through  his  heart  ;  for  the  attitude 
itself  had  an  expression,  and  not  that  of  a  sister's  sympathy 
and  love.  He  turned  away  his  face  with  an  unquiet  recollec- 
tion of  the  altered  mood  of  his  discontented  daughter.  He 
looked  again  ;  the  Duchess  had  passed  on,  lost  amidst  the  con- 
fused splendor  of  the  revel.  And  high  and  rich  swelled  the 
merry  music  that  invited  to  the  stately  pavon.  He  gazed  still : 
his  lady  had  left  her  place  ;  the  lovers,  too,  had  vanished,  and 
where  they  had  stood,  stood  now,  in  close  conference,  his  ancient 
enemies,  Exeter  and  Somerset.  The  sudden  change,  from  ob- 
jects of  love  to  those  associated  with  hate,  had  something  which 
touched  one  of  those  superstitions  to  which,  in  all  ages,  the 
heart,  when  deeply  stirred,  is  weakly  sensitive.  And  again,  for- 
getful of  the  revel,  the  Earl  turned  to  the  serener  landscape 
of  the  grove  and  the  moon-lit  greensward,  and  mused,  and 
mused,  till  a  soft  arm  thrown  around  him  woke  his  revery. 
For  this  had  his  lady  left  the  revel.  Divining,  by  the  instinct 
born  of  love,  the  gloom  of  her  husband,  she  had  stolen  from 
pomp  and  pleasure  to  his  side. 

"Ah  !  wherefore  wouldst  thou  rob  me,"  said  the  Countess,  "  of 
one  hour  of  thy  presence,  since  so  few  hours  remain — since 
when  the  sun,  that  succeeds  the  morrow's,  shines  upon  these 
walls,  the  night  of  thine  absence  will  have  closed  upon  me  ? " 

"  And  if  that  thought  of  parting,  sad  to  me  as  thee,  sufficed 
not,  M'amic,  to  dim  the  revel,"  answered  the  Earl,  "  weetest 
thou  not  how  ill  the  grave  and  solemn  thoughts  of  on£  who  sees 
before  him  the  emprise  that  would  change  the  dynasty  of  a 
realm,  can  suit  with  the  careless  dance  and  the  wanton  music? 
But,  not  at  that  moment  did  I  think  of  those  mightier  cares  ; 
my  tho.ughts  were  nearer  home.  Hast  thou  noted,  sweet  wife, 
the  silent  gloom,  the  clouded  brow  of  Isabel,  since  she  learned 
that  Anne  was  to  be  the  bride  of  the  heir  of  Lancaster." 

The  mother  suppressed  a  sigh.  "  We  must  pardon,  or  glance 
lightly  over,  the  mood  of  one  who  loves  her  lord,  and  mourns 
for  his  baffled  hopes.  Well-a-day  !  I  grieve  that  she  admits 
not  even  me  to  her  confidence.  Ever  with  the  favorite  lady 
who  lately  joined  her  train — methinks,  that  new  friend  gives  less 
holy  counsels  than  a  mother?" 

"Ha!  and  yet  what  counsels  can  Isabel  listen  to  from  a 
comparative  stranger?  Even  if  Edward,  or  rather  his  cunning 
Elizabeth,  had  suborned  this  waiting-woman,  our  daughter 


468  THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

never  could  hearken,  even  in  an  hour  of  anger,  to  the  message 
from  our  dishonorer  and  our  foe." 

"Nay,  but  a  flatterer  often  fosters,  by  praising,  the  erring 
thought.  Isabel  hath  something,  dear  lord,  of  thy  high  heart 
and  courage,  and  ever  from  childhood  her  vaulting  spirit,  her 
very  character  of  stately  beauty,  have  given  her  a  conviction  of 
destiny  and  power  loftier  than  those  reserved  for  our  gentle 
Anne.  Let  us  trust  to  time  and  forbearance,  and  hope  that 
the  affection  of  the  generous  sister  will  subdue  the  jealousy  of 
the  disappointed  princess." 

"Pray  Heaven,  indeed,  that  it  so  prove!  Isabel's  ascend- 
ancy over  Clarence  is  great,  and  might  be  dangerous.  Would 
that  she  consented  to  remain  in  France  with  thee  and  Anrie! 
Her  lord,  at  least,  it  seems  I  have  convinced  and  satisfied. 
Pleased  at  the  vast  fortunes  before  him,  the  toys  of  vice-regal 
power,  his  lighter  nature  reconciles  itself  to  the  loss  of  a 
crown,  which,  I  fear,  it  could  never  have  upheld.  For  the 
more  I  have  read  his  qualities  in  our  household  intimacy,  the 
more  it  seems  that  I  could  scarcely  have  justified  the  imposing 
on  England  a  king  not  worthy  of  so  great  a  people.  He  is 
young  yet,  but  how  different  the  youth  of  Lancastrian  Edward! 
In  him  what  earnest  and  manly  spirit!  What  heaven-born 
views  of  the  duties  of  a  king!  Oh,  if  there  be  a  sin  in  the  pas- 
sion that  hath  urged  me  on,  let  me,  and  me  alone,  atone — and 
may  I  be  at  least  the  instrument  to  give  to  England  a  prince 
whose  virtues  shall  compensate  for  all!" 

While  yet  the  last  word  trembled  upon  the  Earl's  lips,  a  light 
flashed  along  the  floors,  hitherto  illumined  by  the  stars  and  the 
full  moon.  And  presently  Isabel,  in  conference  with  the  lady 
whom  her  mother  had  referred  to,  passed  into  the  room,  on 
her  way  to  her  private  chamber.  The  countenance  of  this 
female  diplomatist,  whose  talent  for  intrigue  Philip  de  Com- 
ines  *  has  commemorated,  but  whose  name,  happily  for  her 
memory,  history  has  concealed,  was  soft  and  winning  in  its  ex- 
pression to  the  ordinary  glance,  though  the  sharpness  of  the 
features,  the  thin  compression  of  the  lips,  and  the  harsh,  dry  red- 
ness of  the  hair,  corresponded  with  the  attributes  which  mod- 
ern physiognomical  science  truly  or  erringly  assigns  to  a  wily 
and  treacherous  character.  She  bore  a  light  in  her  hand,  and 
its  rays  shone  full  o:.  the  disturbed  and  agitated  face  of  the 
Duchess.  Isabel  perceived  at  once  the  forms  of  her  parents, 
and  stopped  short  in  some  whispered  conversation,  and  uttered 
a  cry  almost  of  dismay. 

*  Comines,  iii.,  5  ;  Hall,  Lingard,  Hume,  etc. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  •          469 

"Thou  leavest  the  revel  betimes,  fair  daughter,"  said  the 
Earl,  examining  her  countenance  with  an  eye  somewhat  stern. 

"My  lady,"  said  the  confidant,  with  a  lowly  reverence,  "was 
anxious  for  her  babe." 

"Thy  lady,  good  waiting  wench,"  said  Warwick,  "needs  not 
thy  tongue  to  address  her  father.  Pass  on." 

The  gentlewoman  bit  her  lips,  but  obeyed,  and  quitted  the 
room.  The  Earl  approached  and  took  Isabel's  hand — it  was 
cold  as  stone. 

"My  child,"  said  he  tenderly,  "thou  dost  well  to  retire  to 
rest — of  late  thy  cheek  hath  lost  its  bloom.  But  just  now,  for 
many  causes,  I  was  wishing  thee  not  to  brave  our  perilous  re- 
turn to  England;  and  now,  I  know  not  whether  it  would  make 
me  the  more  uneasy,  to  fear  for  thy  health  if  absent  or  thy 
safety  if  with  me!" 

"My  lord,"  replied  Isabel  coldly,  "my  duty  calls  me  to  my 
husband's  side,  and  the  more,  since  now  it  seems  he  dares  the 
battle,  but  reaps  not  its  rewards !  Let  Edward  and  Anne  rest 
here  in  safety  ;  Clarence  and  Isabel  go  to  achieve  the  diadem 
and  orb  for  others!" 

"Be  not  bitter  with  thy  father,  girl;  be  not  envious  of  thy 
sister!"  said  the  Earl,  in  grave  rebuke;  then,  softening  his  tone, 
he  added:  "The  women  of  a  noble  house  should  have  no  am- 
bition of  their  own — their  glory  and  their  honor  they  should 
leave,  unmurmuring,  in  the  hands  of  men!  Mourn  not  if  thy 
sister  mounts  the  throne  of  him  who  would  have  branded  the 
very  name  to  which  thou  and  she  were  born!" 

"I  have  made  no  reproach,  my  lord.  Forgive  me,  I  pray 
you,  if  I  now  retire;  I  am  sore  weary,  and  would  fain  have 
strength  and  health  not  to  be  a  burden  to  you  when  you 
depart." 

The  Duchess  bowed  with  proud  submission,  and  moved  on. 

"Beware!"  said  the  Earl,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Beware! — and  of  what?"  said  Isabel,  startled. 

"Of  thine  own  heart,  Isabel.  Ay,  go  to  thine  infant's 
couch,  ere  thou  seek  thine  own,  and,  before  the  sleep  of  Inno- 
cence, calm  thyself  back  to  Womanhood." 

The  Duchess  raised  her  head  quickly,  but  habitual  awe  of 
her  father  checked  the  angry  answer;  and  kissing,  with  formal 
reverence,  the  hand  the  Countess  extended  to  her,  she  left  the 
room.  She  gained  the  chamber  in  which  was  the  cradle  of  her 
son,  gorgeously  canopied  with  silks,  inwrought  with  the  blazoned 
arms  of  royal  Clarence — and  beside  the  cradle  sat  the  con- 
fidant. 


470  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

The  Duchess  drew  aside  the  drapery,  and  contemplated  the 
rosy  face  of  the  infant  slumberer. 

Then  turning  to  her  confidant,  she  said: 

"Three  months  since,  and  I  hoped  my  firstborn  would  be  a 
king!  Away  with  those  vain  mockeries  of  royal  birth!  How 
suit  they  the  destined  vassal  of  the  abhorred  Lancastrian?" 

"Sweet  lady,"  said  the  confidant,  "did  I  not  warn  thee,  from 
the  first,  that  this  alliance,  to  the  injury  of  my  lord  Duke,  and 
this  dear  boy,  was  already  imminent?  I  had  hoped  thou 
mightest  have  prevailed  with  the  Earl!" 

"He  heeds  me  not — he  cares  not  forme!"  exclaimed  Isabel-, 
"his  whole  love  is  for  Anne — Anne  who,  without  energy  and 
pride,  I  scarcely  have  looked  on  as  my  equal!  And  now,  to 
my  younger  sister,  I  must  bow  my  knee — pleased  if  she  deign 
to  bid  me  hold  the  skirt  of  her  queenly  robe!  Never — no, 
never!" 

' '  Calm  thyself ;  the  courier  must  part  this  night.  My  lord  of 
Clarence  is  already  in  his  chamber;  he  waits  but  thine  assent 
to  write  to  Edward  that  he  rejects  not  his  loving  messages." 

The  Duchess  walked  to  and  fro,  in  great  disorder. 

"But  to  be  thus  secret  and  false  to  my  father?" 

"Doth  he  merit  that  thou  shouldst  sacrifice  thy  child  to  him? 
Reflect! — the  King  has  no  son!  The  English  barons  acknowl- 
edge not  in  girls  a  sovereign;*  and,  with  Edward  on  the 
throne,  thy  son  is  heir-presumptive.  Little  chance  that  a  male 
heir  shall  now  be  born  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  while  from  Anne 
and  her  bridegroom  a  long  line  may  spring.  Besides,  no  matter 
what  parchment  treaties  may  ordain,  how  can  Clarence  and  his 
offspring  ever  be  regarded  by  a  Lancastrian  king  but  as  ene- 
mies to  feed  the  prison  or  the  block,  when  some  false  inven- 
tion gives  the  seemly  pretext  for  extirpating  the  awful  race." 

"Cease — cease — cease!"  cried  Isabel,  in  terrible  struggles 
with  herself. 

"Lady,  the  hour  presses!  And,  reflect,  a  few  lines  are  but 
words,  to  be  confirmed  or  retracted  as  occasion  suits!  If  Lord 
Warwick  succeed,  and  King  Edward  lose  his  crown,  ye  can 
shape  as  ye  best  may  your  conduct  to  the  time.  But,  if  the 
Earl  lose  the  day ;  if  again  he  be  driven  into  exile;  a  few  words 
now  release  you  and  yours  from  everlasting  banishment;  re- 
store your  boy  to  his  natural  heritage;  deliver  you  from  the 
insolence  of  the  Anjouite,  who,  methinks,  even  dared  this  very 
day  to  taunt  your  Highness — " 

*  Miss  Strickland,  "  Life  of  Elizabeth  of  York,"  remarks  :  "  How  much  Norman  preju- 
dice in  favor  of  S^lic  !«<w  had  corrupted  the  common,  or  constitutional  law  of  England,  re- 
garding the  succession.  '  The  remark  involves  a  controversy. 


THE   LAST    OF   THE    BARONS.  471 

"She  did — she  did!  Oh  that  my  father  had  been  by  to 
hear!  She  bade  me  stand  aside  (that  Anne  might  pass) — 'not 
for  the  younger  daughter  of  Lord  Warwick,  but  for  the  lady 
admitted  into  the  royalty  of  Lancaster ! '  Elizabeth  Wood- 
ville,  at  least,  never  dared  this  insolence!" 

"And  this  Margaret,  the  Duke  of  Clarence  is  to  place  on  the 
throne  which  your  child  yonder  might  otherwise  aspire  to 
mount!" 

Isabel  clasped  her  hands  in  mute  passion. 

"Hark!"  said  the  confidant,  throwing  open  the  door: 

And  along  the  corridor  came,  in  measured  pomp,  a  stately 
procession,  the  chamberlain  in  front,  announcing:  "Her 
Highness  the  Princess  of  Wales";  and  Louis  XL,  leading  the 
virgin  bride  (wife  but  in  name  and  honor,  till  her  dowry  of  a 
kingdom  was  made  secure)  to  her  gentle  rest.  The  ceremonial 
pomp,  the  regal  homage  that  attended  the  younger  sister  thus 
raised  above  herself,  completed  in  Isabel's  jealous  heart  the 
triumph  of  the  Tempter.  Her  face  settled  into  hard  resolve, 
and  she  passed  at  once  from  the  chamber  into  one  near  at 
hand,  where  the  Duke  of  Clarence  sate  alone,  the  rich  wines  of 
the  livery,  not  untasted,  before  him,  and  the  ink  yet  wet  upon 
a  scroll  he  had  just  indited. 

He  turned  his  irresolute  countenance  to  Isabel  as  she  bent 
over  him  and  read  the  letter.  It  was  to  Edward,  and  after 
briefly  warning  him  of  the  meditated  invasion,  significantly 
added:  "And  if  I  may  seem  to  share  this  emprise  which,  here 
and  alone,  I  cannot  resist,  thou  shalt  find  me  still,  when  the 
moment  comes,  thy  affectionate  brother  and  loyal  subject." 

"Well,  Isabel,"  said  the  Duke,  "thou  knowest  I  have  delayed 
this,  till  the  last  hour,  to  please  thee,  for  verily,  lady  mine,  thy 
will  is  my  sweetest  law.  But  now,  if  thy  heart  misgives  thee — " 

"It  does — it  does!"  exclaimed  the  Duchess,  bursting  into 
tears. 

"If  thy  heart  misgives  thee,"  continued  Clarence,  who  with 
all  his  weakness  had  much  of  the  duplicity  of  his  brothers, 
"why  let  it  pass.  Slavery  to  scornful  Margaret — vassalage  to 
thy  sister's  spouse — triumph  to  the  House  which  both  thou  and 
I  were  taught  from  childhood  to  deem  accursed — why  welcome 
all !  so  that  Isabel  does  not  weep,  and  our  boy  reproach  us  not 
in  the  days  to  come!" 

For  all  answer,  Isabel,  who  had  seized  the  letter,  let  it  drop 
on  the  table,  pushed  it,  with  averted  face  towards  the  Duke, 
and  turned  back  to  the  cradle  of  her  child,  whom  she  woke 
with  her  sobs,  and  who  wailed  its  shrill  reply  in  infant  petu- 


47-  Hit    LAST    OK    Tllii    BARONS. 

lance  and  terror,  snatched  from  its  slumber  to  the  arms  of  the 
remorseful  mother. 

A  smile  of  half-contemptuous  joy  passed  over  the  thin  lips 
of  the  she-Judas,  and,  without  speaking,  she  took  her  way  to 
Clarence.  He  had  sealed  and  bound  his  letter,  first  adding 
these  words:  "My  lady  and  duchess,  whatever  her  kin,  has 
seen  this  letter,  and  approves  it,  for  she  is  more  a  friend  to 
York  than  to  the  Earl,  now  he  has  turned  Lancastrian";  and 
placed  it  in  a  small  iron  coffer. 

He  gave  the  coffer,  curiously  clasped  and  locked,  to  the  ge  i- 
tlewoman,  with  a  significant  glance:  "Be  quick,  or  she  re- 
pents! The  courier  waits?  His  steed  saddled?  The  instant 
you  give  it,  he  departs — he  hath  his  permit  to  pass  the  gates?" 

"All  is  prepared;  ere  the  clock  strike,  he  is  on  his  way." 

The  confidant  vanished ;  the  Duke  sank  in  his  chair,  and 
rubbed  his  hands. 

"Oho!  father-in-law,  thou  deemest  me  too  dull  for  a  crown. 
I  am  not  dull  enough  for  thy  tool.  I  have  had  the  wit  at  least 
to  deceive  thee,  and  to  hide  resentment  beneath  a  smiling 
brow!  Dullard  thou,  to  believe  aught  less  than  the  sove- 
reignity  of  England  could  have  bribed  Clarence  to  thy  cause!" 
He  turned  to  the  table  and  complacently  drained  his  goblet. 

Suddenly,  haggard  and  pale  as  a  spectre,  Isabel  stood  be- 
fore him. 

"I  was  mad — mad,  George!  The  letter!  the  letter — it  must 
not  go!" 

At  that  moment  the  clock  struck.  "Bel  enfant"  said  the 
Duke,  "it  is  too  late!" 


BOOK  X. 

THE    RETURN    OF    THE    KING-MAKER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    MAID'S    HOPE,    THE    COURTIER'S    LOVE,    AND    THE     SAGE*S 

COMFORT. 

FAIR  are  thy  fields,  O  England ;  fair  the  rural  farm  and  the 
orchards  in  which  the  blossoms  have  ripened  into  laughing 
fruits;  and  fairer  than  all,  O  England,  the  faces  of  thy  soft- 
eyed  daughters. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  4?3 

From  the  field  where  Sibyll  and  her  father  had  wandered 
amidst  the  dead,  the  dismal  witnesses  of  war  had  vanished ; 
and  over  the  green  pastures  roved  the  gentle  flocks.  And  the 
farm  to  which  Hastings  had  led  the  wanderers  looked  upon 
that  peaceful  field  through  its  leafy  screen ;  and  there  father 
and  daughter  had  found  a  home. 

It  was  a  lovely  summer  evening,  and  Sibyll  put  aside  the 
broidery  frame  at  which,  for  the  last  hour,  she  had  not  worked ; 
and  gliding  to  the  lattice,  looked  wistfully  along  the  winding 
lane.  The  room  was  in  the  upper  story,  and  was  decorated 
with  a  care  which  the  exterior  of  the  house  little  promised,  and 
which  almost  approached  to  elegance.  The  fresh  green  rushes 
that  strewed  the  floor  were  intermingled  with  dried  wild  thyme 
and  other  fragrant  herbs.  The  bare  walls  were  hung  with  serge 
of  a  bright  and  cheerful  blue ;  a  rich  carpet  de  cuir  covered  the 
oak  table,  on  which  lay  musical  instruments,  curiously  inlaid, 
with  a  few  MSS.,  chiefly  of  English  and  Provencal  poetry. 
The  tabourets  were  covered  with  cushions  of  Norwich  worsted, 
in  gay  colors.  All  was  simple,  it  is  true,  yet  all  betokened 
a  comfort,  nay,  a  refinement,  an  evidence  of  wealth,  very  rare 
in  the  houses  even  of  the  second  order  of  nobility. 

As  Sibyll  gazed,  her  face  suddenly  brightened ;  she  uttered 
a  joyous  cry,  hurried  from  the  room,  descended  the  stairs,  and 
passed  her  father,  who  was  seated  without  the  porch,  and 
seemingly  plunged  in  one  of  his  most  abstracted  reveries.  She 
kissed  his  brow  (he  heeded  her  not),  bounded  with  light  step 
over  the  sward  of  the  orchard,  and  pausing  by  a  wicket  gate, 
listened,  with  throbbing  heart,  to  the  advancing  sound  of  a 
horse's  hoofs;  nearer  came  the  sound,  and  nearer.  A  cavalier 
appeared  in  sight,  sprang  from  his  saddle,  and,  leaving  his  pal- 
frey to  find  his  way  to  the  well-known  stable,  sprang  lightly 
over  the  little  gate. 

"And  thou  hast  watched  for  me,  Sibyll?" 

The  girl  blushingly  withdrew  from  the  eager  embrace,  and 
said  touchingly:  "My  heart  watcheth  for  thee  alway.  Oh, 
shall  I  thank  or  chide  thee  for  so  much  care!  Thou  wilt  see 
how  thy  craftsmen  have  changed  the  rugged  homestead  into 
the  daintiest  bower!" 

'  'Alas,  my  Sibyll !  would  that  it  were  worthier  of  thy  beauty, 
and  our  mutual  troth !  Blessings  on  thy  trust  and  sweet  pa- 
tience; may  the  day  soon  come  when  I  may  lead  thee  to  a 
nobler  home ;  and  hear  knight  and  baron  envy  the  bride  of 
Hastings." 

"My  own  lord!"  said  Sibyll,  with  grateful   tears  in  confid- 


474          THK  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

ing  eyes;  but,  after  a  pause,  she  added  timidly:  "Does  the 
King  still  bear  so  stern  a  memory  against  so  humble  a 
subject?" 

"The  King  is  more  wroth  than  before,  since  tidings  of  Lord 
Warwick's  restless  machinations  in  France  have  soured  his 
temper.  He  cannot  hear  thy  name  without  threats  against  thy 
father  as  a  secret  adherent  of  Lancaster,  and  accuseth  thee  of 
witching  his  chamberlain — as,  in  truth,  thou  hast.  The  Duch- 
ess of  Bedford  is  more  than  ever  under  the  influence  of  Friar 
Bungey  to  whose  spells  and  charms,  and  not  to  our  good 
swords,  she  ascribes  the  marvellous  flight  of  Warwick  and  the 
dispersion  of  our  foes;  and  the  friar,  methinks,  has  fostered 
and  yet  feeds  Edward's  suspicions  of  thy  harmless  father. 
The  King  chides  himself  for  having  suffered  poor  Warner  to 
depart  unscathed,  and  even  recalls  the  disastrous  adventure  of 
the  mechanical,  and  swears  that,  from  the  first,  thy  father  was 
in  treasonable  conspiracy  with  Margaret.  Nay,  sure  I  am,  that 
if  I  dared  to  wed  thee  while  his  anger  lasts,  he  would  condemn 
thee  as  a  sorceress,  and  give  me  up  to  the  secret  hate  of  my  old 
foes,  the  Woodvilles.  But  fie!  be  not  so  appalled,  my  Sibyll; 
Edward's  passions,  though  fierce,  are  changeful,  and  patience 
will  reward  us  both." 

"Meanwhile,  thou  lovest  me,  Hastings!"  said  Sibyll,  with 
great  emotion.  "Oh,  if  thou  knewest  how  I  torment  myself  in 
thine  absence!  I  see  thee  surrounded  by  the  fairest  and  the 
loftiest,  and  say  to  myself:  'Is  it  possible  that  he  can  remem- 
ber me?'  But  thou  lovest  me  still — still — still,  and  ever!  Dost 
thou  not?" 

And  Hastings  said  and  swore. 

"And  the  Lady  Bonville?"  asked  Sibyll,  trying  to  smile 
archly,  but  with  the  faltering  tone  of  jealous  fear. 

"I  have  not  seen  her  for  months,"  replied  the  noble,  with  a 
slight  change  of  countenance.  "She  is  at  one  of  those  western 
manors.  They  say  her  lord  is  sorely  ill;  and  the  Lady  Bon- 
ville is  a  devout  hypocrite,  and  plays  the  tender  wife.  But 
enough  of  such  ancient  and  worn-out  memories.  Thy  father — 
sorrows  he  still  for  his  Eureka?  I  can  learn  no  trace  of  it." 

"See,"  said  Sibyll,  recalled  to  her  filial  love,  and  pointing 
to  Warner  as  they  now  drew  near  the  house,  "See,  he  shapes 
another  Eureka  from  his  thoughts!" 

"How  fares  it,  dear  Warner?"  asked  the  noble,  taking  the 
scholar's  hand. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  student,  roused  at  the  sight  of  his  power- 
ful protector.  "Bringest  thou  tidings  of  IT?  Thy  cheerful 


THE   LAST   OF    THE    BARONS.  475 

eye  tells  me  that — no — no — thy  face  changes!  They  have 
destroyed  it!  Oh  that  I  could  be  young  once  more!" 

"What!"  said  the  world-wise -man,  astonished.  "If  thou 
hadst  another  youth,  wouldst  thou  cherish  the  same  delusion, 
and  go  again  through  a  life  of  hardship,  persecution,  and 
wrong?" 

"My  noble  son,"  said  the  philosopher,  "for  hours  when  I 
have  felt  the  wrong,  the  persecution,  and  the  hardship,  count 
the  days  and  the  nights  when  I  have  felt  only  the  hope,  and 
the  glory,  and  the  joy !  God  is  kinder  to  us  all  than  man  can 
know ;  for  man  looks  only  to  the  sorrow  on  the  surface,  and 
sees  not  the  consolation  in  the  deeps  of  the  unwitnessed  soul." 

Sibyll  had  left  Hastings  by  her  father's  side,  and  tripped 
lightly  to  the  farther  part  of  the  house,  inhabited  by  the  rustic 
owners  who  supplied  the  homely  service,  to  order  the  evening 
banquet — the  happy  banquet;  for  hunger  gives  not  such  flavor 
to  the  viand,  nor  thirst  such  sparkle  to  the  wine,  as  the  pres- 
ence of  a  beloved  guest. 

And  as  the  courtier  seated  himself  on  the  rude  settle,  under 
the  honeysuckles  that  wreathed  the  porch,  a  delicious  calm 
stole  over  his  sated  mind.  The  pure  soul  of  the  student,  re- 
leased awhile  from  the  tyranny  of  an  earthly  pursuit — the 
drudgery  of  a  toil,  that,  however  grand,  still  but  ministered  to 
human  and  material  science — had  found  for  its  only  other  ele- 
ment the  contemplation  of  more  solemn  and  eternal  mysteries. 
Soaring  naturally,  as  a  bird  freed  from  a  golden  cage,  into  the 
realms  of  heaven,  he  began  now,  with  earnest  and  spiritual 
eloquence,  to  talk  of  the  things  and  visions  lately  made  famil- 
iar to  his  thoughts.  Mounting  from  philosophy  to  religion,  he 
indulged  in  his  large  ideas  upon  life  and  nature:  of  the  stars 
that  now  came  forth  in  heaven;  of  the  laws  that  gave  harmony 
to  the  universe;  of  the  evidence  of  a  God  in  the  mechanism  of 
creation ;  of  the  spark  from  central  divinity,  that,  kindling  in 
a  man's  soul,  we  call  "genius";  of  the  eternal  resurrection  of 
the  dead,  which  makes  the  very  principle  of  being,  and  types, 
in  the  leaf  and  in  the  atom,  the  immortality  of  the  great  human 
race.  He  was  sublimer,  that  gray  old  man,  hunted  from  the 
circle  of  his  kind,  in  his  words,  than  ever  is  action  in  its 
deeds;  for  words  can  fathom  truth,  and  deeds  but  blunder- 
ingly and  lamely  seek  it. 

And  the  sad,  and  gifted,  and  erring  intellect  of  Hastings, 
rapt  from  its  little  ambition  of  the  hour,  had  no  answer  when 
his  heart  asked:  "What  can  courts  and  a  king's  smile  give  me 
in  exchange  for  serene  tranquillity  and  devoted  love?" 


476  THE    LAST    OF    iili     i>AKONS. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    MAN    AWAKES    IN    THE   SAGE,  AND    THE    SHE-WOLF    AGAIN 
HATH    TRACKED    THE    LAMB. 

FROM  the  night  in  which  Hastings  had  saved  from  the 
knives  of  the  tymbesteres  Sibyll  and  her  father,  his  honor  and 
chivalry  had  made  him  their  protector.  The  people  of  the 
farm  (a  widow  and  her  children,  with  the  peasants  in  their  em- 
ploy) were  kindly  and  simple  folks.  What  safer  home  for  the 
wanderers  than  that  to  which  Hastings  had  removed  them  ?  The 
influence  of  Sibyll  over  his  variable  heart  or  fancy  was  renewed. 
Again  vows  were  interchanged,  and  faith  plighted.  Anthony 
Woodville,  Lord  Rivers,  who,  however  gallant  an  enemy,  was 
still  more  than  ever,  since  Warwick's  exile,  a  formidable  one, 
and  who  shared  his  sister's  dislike  to  Hastings,  was  naturally, 
at  that  time  in  the  fullest  favor  of  King  Edward,  anxious  to 
atone  for  the  brief  disgrace  his  brother-in-law  had  suffered 
during  the  later  days  of  Warwick's  administration.  And  Hast- 
ings, offended  by  the  manners  of  the  rival  favorite,  took  one  of 
the  disgusts  so  frequent  in  the  life  of  a  courtier,  and,  despite 
his  office  as  chamberlain,  absented  himself  much  from  his  sove- 
reign's company.  Thus,  in  the  reaction  of  his  mind,  the  in- 
fluence of  Sibyll  was  greater  than  it  otherwise  might  have  been. 
His  visits  to  the  farm  grew  regular  and  frequent.  The  widow 
believed  him  nearly  related  to  Sibyll,  and  suspected  Warner  to 
be  some  attainted  Lancastrian,  compelled  to  hide  in  secret  till 
his  pardon  was  obtained;  and  no  scandal  was  attached  to  the 
noble's  visits,  nor  any  surprise  evinced  at  his  attentive  care  for 
all  that  could  lend  a  grace  to  a  temporary  refuge  unfitting  the 
quality  of  his  supposed  kindred. 

And  in  her  entire  confidence  and  reverential  affection,  Si- 
byll's  very  pride  was  rather  soothed  than  wounded,  by  obliga- 
tions which  were  but  proofs  of  love,  and  to  which  plighted  troth 
gave  her  a  sweet  right.  As  for  Warner,  he  had  hitherto  seemed 
to  regard  the  great  lord's  attentions  only  as  a  tribute  to  his  own 
science,  and  a  testimony  of  the  interest  which  a  statesman 
might  naturally  feel  in  the  invention  of  a  thing  that  might 
benefit  the  realm.  And  Hastings  had  been  delicate  in  the  pre- 
texts of  his  visits.  One  time  he  called  to  relate  the  death  of 
poor  Madge,  though  he  kindly  concealed  the  manner  of  it, 
which  he  had  discovered,  but  which  opinion,  if  not  law,  for- 
bade him  to  attempt  to  punish — drowning  was  but  the  orthodox 
ordeal  of  a  suspected  witch,  and  it  was  not  without  many  scru- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  477 

pies  that  the  poor  woman  was  interred  in  holy  ground.  The 
search  for  the  Eureka  was  a  pretence  that  sufficed  for  count- 
less visits;  and  then,  too,  Hastings  had  counselled  Adam  to 
sell  the  ruined  house,  and  undertaken  the  negotiation;  and  the 
new  comforts  of  their  present  residence,  and  the  expense  of  the 
maintenance,  were  laid  to  the  account  of  the  sale.  Hastings 
had  begun  to  consider  Adam  Warner  as  utterly  blind  and  pas- 
sive to  the  things  that  passed  under  his  eyes ;  and  his  aston- 
ishment was  great  when,  the  morning  after  the  visit  we  have 
just  recorded,  Adam  suddenly  lifting  his  eyes,  and  seeing  the 
guest  whispering  soft  tales  in  Sibyll's  ear,  rose  abruptly,  ap- 
proached the  nobleman,  took  him  gently  by  the  arm,  led  him 
into  the  garden,  and  thus  addressed  him : 

"Noble  lord,  you  have  been  tender  and  generous  in  our  mis- 
fortunes. The  poor  Eureka  is  lost  to  me  and  the  world  for- 
ever. God's  will  be  done !  Methinks  Heaven  designs  thereby 
to  rouse  me  to  the  sense  of  nearer  duties;  and  I  have  a  daugh- 
ter whose  name  I  adjure  you  not  to  sully,  and  whose  heart  I 
pray  you  not  to  break.  Come  hither  no  more,  my  Lord 
Hastings." 

This  speech,  almost  the  only  one  which  showed  plain  sense 
and  judgment  in  the  affairs  of  this  life  that  the  man  of  genius 
had  ever  uttered,  so  confounded  Hastings,  that  he  with  diffi- 
culty recovered  himself  enough  to  say: 

"My  poor  scholar,  what  hath  so  suddenly  kindled  suspicions 
which  wrong  thy  child  and  me?" 

"Last  eve,  when  ye  sate  together,  I  saw  your  hand  steal  into 
hers,  and  suddenly  I  remembered  the  day  when  /  was  young 
and  wooed  her  mother!  And  last  night  I  slept  not,  and  sense 
and  memory  became  active  for  my  living  child,  as  they  were 
wont  to  be  only  for  the  iron  infant  of  my  mind,  and  I  said  to 
myself:  '  Lord  Hastings  is  King  Edward's  friend,  and  King 
Edward  spares  not  maiden  honor.  Lord  Hastings  is  a  mighty 
peer,  and  he  will  not  wed  the  dowerless  and  worse  than  name- 
less girl ! '  Be  merciful !  Depart — depart ! ' ' 

"But,"  exclaimed  Hastings,  "if  I  love  thy  sweet  Sibyll  in 
all  honesty — if  I  have  plighted  to  her  my  troth — " 

"Alas!  alas!"  groaned  Adam. 

"If  I  wait  but  my  King's  permission  to  demand  her  wedded 
hand,  couldst  thou  forbid  me  the  presence  of  my  affianced?" 

"She  loves  thee,  then?"  said  Adam,  in  a  tone  of  great  an- 
guish— "she  loves  thee — speak!" 

"It  is  my  pride  to  think  it." 

"Then  go— go  at  once;  come  back  no  more,  till  thou 


478  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

wound  up  thy  courage  to  brave  the  sacrifice;  no,  not  till  the 
priest  is  ready  at  the  altar — not  till  the  bridegroom  can  claim 
the  bride.  And  as  that  time  will  never  come — never — never — 
leave  me  to  whisper  to  the  breaking  heart :  '  Courage ;  honor 
and  virtue  are  left  thee  yet,  and  thy  mother  from  heaven  looks 
down  on  a  stainless  child* !" 

The  resuscitation  of  the  dead  could  scarcely  have  startled 
and  awed  the  courtier  more  than  this  abrupt  development  of 
life  and  passion  and  energy  in  a  man  who  had  hitherto  seemed 
to  sleep  in  the  folds  of  his  thought,  as  a  chrysalis  in  its  web. 
But  as  we  have  always  seen  that  ever,  when  this  strange  being 
woke  from  his  ideal  abstraction,  he  awoke  to  honor  and  cour- 
age and  truth,  so  now,  whether,  as  he  had  said,  the  absence  of 
the  Eureka  left  his  mind  to  the  sense  of  practical  duties,  or 
whether  their  common  suffering  had  more  endeared  to  him 
his  gentle  companion,  and  affection  sharpened  reason,  Adam 
Warner  became  puissant  and  majestic  in  his  rights  and  sanctity 
of  father;  greater  in  his  homely  household  character,  than 
when,  in  his  mania  of  inventor  and  the  sublime  hunger  of  as- 
piring genius,  he  had  stolen  to  his  daughter's  couch  and  waked 
her  with  the  cry  of  "Gold!" 

Before  the  force  and  power  of  Adam's  adjuration — his  out- 
stretched hand,  the  anguish,  yet  authority,  written  on  his 
face — all  the  art  and  self-possession  of  the  accomplished  lover 
deserted  him,  as  one  spellbound. 

He  was  literally  without  reply ;  till,  suddenly,  the  sight  of 
Sibyll,  who,  surprised  by  this  singu  ar  conference,  but  unsus- 
pecting its  nature,  now  came  from  the  house,  relieved  and 
nerved  him ;  and  his  first  impulse  was  then,  as  ever,  worthy 
and  noble,  such  as  showed,  though  dimly,  how  glorious  a  crea- 
ture he  had  been,  if  cast  in  a  time  and  amidst  a  race  which 
could  have  fostered  the  impulse  into  habit. 

"Brave  old  man!"  he  said,  kissing  the  hand  still  raised  in 
command,  "thou  hast  spoken  as  beseems  thee;  and  my  an- 
swer I  will  tell  thy  child."  Then  hurrying  to  the  wondering 
Sibyll,  he  resumed:  "Your  father  says  well,  that  not  thus, 
dubious  and  in  secret,  should  I  visit  the  home  blest  by  thy 
beloved  presence — I  obey;  I  leave  thee,  Sibyll.  I  goto  my 
King,  as  one  who  hath  served  him  long  and  truly,  and  claim 
his  guerdon — thee!" 

"Oh,  my  lord!"  exclaimed  Sibyll,  in  generous  terror:  "be- 
think thee  well — remember  what  thou  saidst  but  last  eve.  This 
King  so  fierce — my  name  so  hated!  No!  no!  leave  me. 
Farewell  forever,  if  it  be  right,  as  what  thou  and  my  father  say 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  479 

must  be.  But  thy  life,  thy  liberty,  thy  welfare — they  are  my 
happiness — thou  hast  no  right  to  endanger  them!"  And  she 
fell  at  his  knees.  He  raised,  and  strained  her  to  his  heart ; 
then  resigning  her  to  her  father's  arms,  he  said  in  a  voice 
choked  with  emotion : 

"Not  as  peer  and  as  knight,  but  as  man,  I  claim  my  prerog- 
ative of  home  and  hearth !  Let  Edward  frown — call  back  his 
gifts — banish  me  his  court — thou  art  more  worth  than  all! 
Look  for  me — sigh  not — weep  not — smile  till  we  meet  again ! ' ' 
He  left  them  with  these  words,  hastened  to  the  stall  where 
his  steed  stood,  caparisoned  it  with  his  own  hands,  and  rode 
with  the  speed  of  one  whom  passion  spurs  and  goads,  towards 
the  Tower  of  London. 

But  as  Sibyll  started  from  her  father's  arms,  when  she  heard 
the  departing  hoofs  of  her  lover's  steed,  to  listen  and  to  listen 
for  the  last  sound  that  told  of  /«'/«,  a  terrible  apparition,  ever 
ominous  of  woe  and  horror,  met  her  eye.  On  the  other  side  of 
the  orchard  fence,  which  concealed  her  figure,  but  not  her 
well-known  face  which  peered  above,  stood  the  tymbestere, 
Graul.  A  shriek  of  terror  at  this  recognition  burst  from 
Sibyll,  as  she  threw  herself  again  upon  Adam's  breast;  but 
when  he  looked  round  to  discover  the  cause  of  her  alarm — 
Graul  was  gone. 

CHAPTER  III. 

VIRTUOUS     RESOLVES     SUBMITTED     TO     THE     TEST    OF     VANITY 
AND    THE    WORLD. 

ON  reaching  his  own  house,  Hastings  learned  that  the  court 
was  still  at  Shene.  He  waited  but  till  the  retinue  which  his 
rank  required  were  equipped  and  ready,  and  reached  the  court, 
from  which  of  late  he  had  found  so  many  excuses  to  absent 
himself,  before  night.  Edward  was  then  at  the  banquet,  and 
Hastings  was  too  experienced  a  courtier  to  disturb  him  at  such 
a  time.  In  a  mood  unfit  for  companionship,  he  took  his  way 
to  the  apartments  usually  reserved  for  him,  when  a  gentleman 
mei  him  by  the  way,  and  apprised  him  with  great  respect  that 
the  Lord  Scales  and  Rivers  had  already  appropriated  those 
apartments  to  the  principal  waiting-lady  of  his  Countess,  but 
that  other  chambers,  if  less  commodious  and  spacious,  were  at 
his  command. 

Hastings  had  not  the  superb  and  more  than  regal  pride  of 
Warwick  and  Montagu,  but  this  notice  sensibly  piqued  and 
galled  him, 


4o  Ti!F     LAST    Ol'     THK    KARONS. 

"My  apartments  as  lord  chamberlain — as  one  of  the  captain- 
generals  in  the  King's  army — given  to  the  waiting-lady  of  Sir 
Anthony  Woodville's  wife!  At  whose  order,  sir?" 

"Her  Highness  the  Queen's — pardon  me,  my  lord,"  and  the 
gentleman,  looking  round  and  sinking  his  voice,  continued — 
"pardon  me,  her  Highness  added:  'If  my  lord  chamberlain 
returns  n«t  ere  the  week  ends,  he  may  find,  not  only  the  apart- 
ment, but  the  office,  no  longer  free. '  My  lord,  we  all  love  you — 
forgive  my  zeal,  and  look  well  if  you  would  guard  your  own." 

"Thanks,  sir.     Is  my  lord  of  Gloucester  in  the  palace?" 

"He  is,  and  in  his  chamber.     He  sits  not  long  at  the  feast." 

"Oblige  me,  by  craving  his  Grace's  permission  to  wait  on 
him  at  leisure — I  attend  his  answer  here." 

Leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  corridor,  Hastings  gave  him  • 
self  up  to  other  thoughts  than  those  of  love!  So  strong  i&. 
habit,  so  powerful  vanity  or  ambition,  once  indulged,  that  this 
puny  slight  made  a  sudden  revulsion  in  the  mind  of  the  royal 
favorite;  once  more  the  agitated  and  brilliant  court  life  stirred 
and  fevered  him ;  that  life,  so  wearisome  when  secure,  became 
sweet  when  imperilled.  To  counteract  his  foes ;  to  humble  his 
rivals;  to  regain  the  King's  countenance;  to  baffle,  with  the 
easy  art  of  his  skilful  intellect,  every  hostile  stratagem — such 
were  the  ideas  that  crossed  and  hurtled  themselves,  and  Sibyll 
was  forgotten. 

The  gentleman  reappeared.  "Prince  Richard  besought  my 
lord's  presence  with  loving  welcome";  and  to  the  Duke's 
Apartment  went  Lord  Hastings.  Richard,  clad  in  a  loose 
chamber  robe,  which  concealed  the  defects  of  his  shape,  rose 
from  before  a  table  covered  with  papers,  and  embraced  Hast- 
ings with  cordial  affection. 

"Never  more  gladly  hail  to  thee,  dear  William.  I  need  thy 
wise  counsels  with  the  King,  and  I  have  glad  tidings  for  thine 
own  ear." 

"Pardteu,  my  Prince,  the  King,  fnethinks,  will  scarce  heed 
the  counsels  of  a  dead  man." 

"Dead?" 

"Ay.  At  courts  it  seems  men  are  dead — their  rooms  filled — 
their  places  promised  or  bestowed,  if  they  come  not,  morn  and 
night,  to  convince  the  King  that  they  are  alive."  And  Hast- 
ings, with  constrained  gayety,  repeated  the  information  he  had 
received. 

"What  would  you,  Hastings?"  said  the  Duke,  shrugging  his 
shoulders,  but  with  some  latent  meaning  in  his  tone.  "Lord 
Rivers  were  nought  in  himself;  but  his  Jady  is  a  mighty  heir- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BAKONS.  48? 

ess,*  and  requires  state,  as  she  bestows  pomp.  Look  round, 
and  tell  me  what  man  ever  maintained  himself  in  power  without 
the  strong  connections,  the  convenient  dower,  the  acute,  unseen, 
unsleeping  woman-influence  of  some  noble  wife?  How  can  a 
poor  man  defend  his  repute,  his  popular  name,  that  airy  but 
all-puissant  thing  we  call  dignity  or  station,  against  the  pricks 
and  stings  of  female  intrigue  and  female  gossip?  But  he 
marries,  and  lo,  a  host  of  fairy  champions,  who  pinch  the  rival 
lozels  unawares:  his  wife  hath  her  army  of  courtpie  and  jupon, 
to  array  against  the  dames  of  his  foes !  Wherefore,  my  friend, 
while  thou  art  unwedded,  think  not  to  cope  with  Lord  Rivers, 
who  hath  a  wife,  with  three  sisters,  two  aunts,  and  a  score  of 
she-cousins!" 

"And  if,"  replied  Hastings,  more  and  more  unquiet  under 
the  Duke's  truthful  irony — "if  I  were  now  come  to  ask  the 
King  permission  to  wed — " 

"If  thou  wert,  and  the  bride  elect  were  a  lady,  with  power 
and  wealth  and  manifold  connections,  and  the  practice  of  a 
court,  thou  wouldst  be  the  mightiest  lord  in  the  kingdom  since 
Warwick's  exile." 

"And  if  she  had  but  youth,  beauty,  and  virtue?" 

"Oh,  then,  my  Lord  Hastings,  pray  thy  patron  saint  for  a 
war — for  in  peace  thou  wouldst  be  lost  amongst  the  crowd. 
But  truce  to  these  jests ;  for  thou  art  not  the  man  to  prate  of 
youth,  virtue,  and  such  like,  in  sober  earnest,  amidst  this  work- 
day world,  where  nothing  is  young  and  nothing  virtuous — and 
listen  to  grave  matters." 

The  Duke  then  communicated  to  Hastings  the  last  tidings 
received  of  the  machinations  of  Warwick.  He  was  in  high 
spirits;  for  those  last  tidings  but  reported  Margaret's  refusal 
to  entertain  the  proposition  of  a  nuptial  alliance  with  the  Earl, 
though,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  who  was  in 
constant  correspondence  with  his  spies,  wrote  word  that  War- 
wick was  collecting  provisions,  from  his  own  means,  for  more 
than  60,000  men;  and  that,  with  Lancaster  or  without,  the 
Earl  was  prepared  to  match  his  own  family  interest  against  the 
armies  of  Edward. 

"And,"  said  Hastings,  "if  all  his  family  joined  with  him, 
what  foreign  king  could  be  so  formidable  an  invader?  Mal- 
travers  and  the  Mowbrays,  Fauconberg,  Westmoreland,  Fitz- 
hugh,  Stanley,  Bonville,  Worcester — " 

"But  happily,"  said  Gloucester,  "the  Mowbrays  have  been 

*  Elizabeth  secured  to  her  brother,  Sir  Anthony,  the  greatest  heiress  in  the  kingdom  in 
the  dauehter  of  Ixjrd  Scales— a  wife,  by  the  way,  who  is  said  to  have  been  a  mere  child  at 
the  time  of  the  marriage. 


48^  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

allied  also  to  the  Queen's  sister;  Worcester  detests  Warwick ; 
Stanley  always  murmurs  against  us,  a  sure  sign  that  he  will 
light  tor  us;  and  Bonville — I  have  in  view  a  trusty  Yorkist  to 
whom  the  retainers  of  that  house  shall  be  assigned.  But  of 
that  anon.  What  I  now  wish  from  thy  wisdom  is,  to  aid  me  in 
rousing  Edward  from  his  lethargy;  he  laughs  at  his  danger,  and 
neither  communicates  with  his  captains  nor  mans  his  coasts. 
His  courage  makes  him  a  dullard." 

After  some  farther  talk  on  these  heads,  and  more  detailed 
account  of  the  preparations  which  Gloucester  deemed  necessary 
to  urge  on  the  King,  the  Duke,  then,  moving  his  chair  nearer 
to  Hastings,  said,  with  a  smile: 

"And  now,  Hastings,  to  thyself:  it  seems  that  thou  hast  not 
heard  the  news  which  reached  us  four  days  since — the  Lord 
Bonville  is  dead — died  three  months  *  ago  at  his  manor  house 
in  Devon.  Thy  Katherine  is  free,  and  in  London.  Well, 
man  where  is  thy  joy  ?  " 

"Time  is — time  was/"  said  Hastings  gloomily.  "The  day 
has  passed  when  this  news  could  rejoice  me." 

"Passed!  Nay,  thy  good  stars  themselves  have  fought  for 
thee  in  delay.  Seven  goodly  manors  swell  the  fair  widow's 
jointure;  the  noble  dowry  she  brought  returns  to  her.  Her 
very  daughter  will  bring  thee  power.  Young  Cecily  Bonville, 
the  heiress,f  Lord  Dorset  demands  in  betrothal.  Thy  wife  will 
be  mother-in-law  to  thy  Queen's  son;  on  the  other  hand,  she 
is  already  aunt  to  the  Duchess  of  Clarence ;  and  George,  be 
sure,  sooner  or  later,  will  desert  Warwick,  and  win  his  pardon. 
Powerful  connections — vast  possessions — a  lady  of  immaculate 
name  and  surpassing  beauty,  and  thy  first  love!  (thy  hand 
trembles!) — thy  first  love — thy  sole  love,  and  thy  last!" 

"Prince — Prince!  forbear!  Even  if  so — in  brief,  Katherine 
loves  me  not.!" 

"Thou  mistakest!  I  have  seen  her,  and  she  loves  thee  not 
the  less  because  her  virtue  so  long  concealed  the  love." 

Hastings  uttered  an  exclamation  of  passionate  joy,  but  again 
his  face  darkened. 

Gloucester  watched  him  in  silence;  besides  any  motives  sug- 
gested by  the  affection  he  then  sincerely  bore  to  Hastings, 
policy  might  well  interest  the  Duke  in  the  securing  to  so  loyal 
a  Yorkist  the  hand  and  the  wealth  of  Lord  Warwick's  sister; 

*  To  those  who  have  read  the  Paston  Letters,  it  will  not  seem  strange  that  in  that  day 
the  death  of  a  nobleman  at  his  country  seat  should  be  so  long  in  reaching  the  metropolis — 
the  ordinary  purveyors  of  communication  were  the  itinerant  attendants  of  fairs.  And  a 
father  might  he  ignorant  for  months  together  of  the  death  of  his  son. 

t  Afterwards  married  to  Dorset. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  483 

but  prudently  not  pressing  the  subject  farther,  he  said,  in  an 
altered  and  careless  voice:  "Pardon  me  if  I  have  presumed  on 
matters  on  which  each  man  judges  for  himself.  But  as,  despite 
all  obstacles,  one  day  or  other  Anne  Nevile  shall  be  mine,  it 
would  have  delighted  me  to  know  a  near  connection  in  Lord 
Hastings.  And  now  the  hour  grows  late,  I  prithee  let  Edward 
find  thee  in  his  chamber." 

When  Hastings  attended  the  King,  he  at  once  perceived  that 
Edward's  manner  was  changed  to  him.  At  first  he  attributed 
the  cause  to  the  ill-offices  of  the  Queen  and  her  brother;  but 
the  King  soon  betrayed  the  true  source  of  his  altered  humor. 

"My  lord,"  he  said  abruptly,  "I  am  no  saint,  as  thou 
knowest;  but  there  are  some  ties,  par  amour,  which,  in  my 
mind,  become  not  knights  and  nobles  about  a  king's  person." 

"My  liege,  I  arede  you  not!" 

"Tush,  William!"  replied  the  King,  more  gently,  "thou  hast 
more  than  once  wearied  me  with  application  for  the  pardon  of 
the  nigromancer,  Warner — the  whole  court  is  scandalized  at 
thy  love  for  his  daughter.  Thou  hast  absented  thyself  from 
thine  office  on  poor  pretexts !  I  know  thee  too  well  not  to  be 
aware  that  love  alone  can  make  thee  neglect  thy  King — thy 
time  has  been  spent  at  the  knees  or  in  the  arms  of  this  young 
sorceress !  One  word  for  all  times — he  whom  a  witch  snares 
cannot  be  a  king's  true  servant!  I  ask  of  thee,  as  a  right,  or 
as  a  grace — see  this  fair  ribaude  no  more !  What,  man,  are 
there  not  ladies  enough  in  merry  England,  that  thou  shouldst 
undo  thyself  for  so  unchristian  a  fere?" 

"My  King,  how  can  this  poor  maid  have  angered  thee  thus?" 

"Knowest  thou  not — "  began  the  King  sharply,  and  chang- 
ing color  as  he  eyed  his  favorite's  mournful  astonishment — 

"Ah,  well!"  he  muttered  to  himself,  "they  have  been  dis- 
creet hitherto,  but  how  long  will  they  be  so?  I  am  in  time  yet. 
It  is  enough — "  he  added,  aloud  and  gravely — "it  is  enough 
that  our  learned  *  Bungey  holds  her  father  as  a  most  pestilent 
wizard,  whose  spells  are  muttered  for  Lancaster  and  the  rebel 
Warwick;  that  the  girl  hath  her  father's  unholy  gifts,  and  I 
lay  my  command  on  thee,  as  liege  King,  and  I  pray  thee,  as 
loving  friend,  to  see  no  more  either  child  or  sire!  Let  this 
suffice — and  now  I  will  hear  thee  on  state  matters." 

Whatever  Hastings  might  feel,  he  saw  that  it  was  no  time  to 
venture  remonstrance  with  the  King,  and  strove  to  collect  his 
thoughts,  and  speak  indifferently  on  the  high  interests  to  which 
Edward  invited  him ;  but  he  was  so  distracted  and  absent  that 

*  It  will  be  remembered  ibat  Edward  himself  was  a  man  of  no  learning. 


484  '1'HE    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

he  made  but  a  sorry  counsellor,  and  the  King,  taking  pity  on 
him,  dismissed  his  chamberlain  for  the  night. 

Sleep  came  not  to  the  couch  of  Hastings ;  his  acuteness  per- 
ceived that  whatever  Edward's  superstition — and  he  was  a 
devout  believer  in  witchcraft — some  more  worldly  motive  actu- 
ated him  in  his  resentment  to  poor  Sibyll.  But,  as  we  need 
scarcely  say  that  neither  from  the  abstracted  Warner,  nor  his 
innocent  daughter,  had  Hastings  learned  the  true  cause,  he 
wearied  himself  with  vain  conjectures,  and  knew  not  that  Ed- 
ward involuntarily  did  homage  to  the  superior  chivalry  of  his 
gallant  favorite,  when  he  dreaded  that,  above  all  men,  Has- 
tings should  be  made  aware  of  the  guilty  secret  which  the  phil- 
osopher and  his  child  could  tell.  If  Hastings  gave  his  name 
and  rank  to  Sibyll,  how  powerful  a  weight  would  the  tale  of  a 
witness  now  so  obscure  suddenly  acquire! 

Turning  from  the  image  of  Sibyll,  thus  beset  with  thoughts 
of  danger,  embarrassment,  humiliation,  disgrace,  ruin,  Lord 
Hastings  recalled  the  words  of  Gloucester:  and  the  stately 
image  of  Katherine,  surrounded  with  every  memory  of  early 
passion,  every  attribute  of  present  ambition,  rose  before  him, 
and  he  slept  at  last,  to  dream  not  of  Sibyll  and  the  humble 
orchard,  but  of  Katherine  in  her  maiden  bloom — of  the  tryst- 
ing  tree,  by  the  Halls  of  Middleham — of  the  broken  ring — of 
the  rapture  and  the  woe  of  his  youth's  first  high-placed  love. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    STRIFE    WHICH    SIBYLL    HAD    COURTED,   BETWEEN    KATHE- 
RINE   AND    HERSELF,    COMMENCES    IN    SERIOUS    EARNEST. 

HASTINGS  felt  relieved  when,  the  next  day,  several  couriers 
arrived  with  tidings  so  important  as  to  merge  all  considerations 
into  those  of  state.  A  secret  messenger  from  the  French  court 
threw  Gloucester  into  one  of  those  convulsive  passions  of  rage 
to  which,  with  all  his  intellect  and  dissimulation,  he  was  some- 
times subject — by  the  news  of  Anne's  betrothal  to  Prince  Ed- 
ward ;  nor  did  the  letter  from  Clarence  to  the  King,  attesting 
the  success  of  one  of  his  schemes,  comfort  Richard  for  the 
failure  of  the  other.  A  letter  from  Burgundy  confirmed  the 
report  of  the  spy,  announced  Duke  Charles's  intention  of  send- 
ing a  fleet  to  prevent  Warwick's  invasion,  and  rated  King  Ed- 
ward sharply  for  his  supineness  in  not  preparing  suitably 
against  so  formidable  a  foe.  The  gay  and  reckless  presump- 
tion of  Edward,  worthier  of  a  knight-errant  than  a  monarch, 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  485 

laughed  at  the  \vordfnvasion.  "Pest  on  Burgundy's  ships! 
I  only  wish  that  the  Earl  would  land !  "  *  he  said  to  his  council. 
None  echoed  the  wish!  But  later  in  the  day  came  a  third 
messenger  with  information  that  roused  all  Edward's  ire ;  care- 
less of  each  danger  in  the  distance,  he  ever  sprang  into  energy 
and  vengeance  when  a  foe  was  already  in  the  field.  And  the 
Lord  Fitzhugh  (the  young  nobleman  before  seen  among  the 
rebels  at  Olney,  and  who  had  now  succeeded  to  the  honors  of 
his  house)  had  suddenly  risen  in  the  north,  at  the  head  of  a  for- 
midable rebellion.  No  rn.an  had  so  large  an  experience  in  the 
warfare  of  those  districts,  the  temper  of  the  people,  and  the  in- 
clinations of  the  various  towns  and  lordships,  as  Montagu;  he 
was  the  natural  chief  to  depute  against  the  rebels.  Some 
animated  discussion  took  place  as  to  the  dependence  to  be 
placed  in  the  Marquis  at  such  a  crisis;  but  while  the  more 
wary  held  it  safer,  at  all  hazards,  not  to  leave  him  unem- 
ployed, and  to  command  his  services  in  an  expedition  that 
would  remove  him  from  the  neighborhood  of  his  brother, 
should  the  latter  land,  as  was  expected,  on  the  coast  of  Nor- 
folk, Edward,  with  a  blindness  of  conceit  that  seems  almost 
incredible,  believed  firmly  in  the  infatuated  loyalty  of  the  man 
whom  he  had  slighted  and  impoverished,  and  whom,  by  his 
offer  of  his  daughter  to  the  Lancastrian  Prince,  he  had  yet 
more  recently  cozened  and  deluded.  Montagu  was  hastily 
summoned,  and  received  orders  to  march  at  once  to  the  north, 
levy  forces  and  assume  their  command.  The  Marquis  obeyed 
with  fewer  words  than  were  natural  to  him,  left  the  presence, 
sprang  on  his  horse,  and  as  he  rode  from  the  palace,  drew  a  let- 
ter from  his  bosom.  "Ah,  Edward!"  said  he,  setting  his  teeth; 
"so,  after  the  solemn  betrothal  of  thy  daughter  to  my  son,  thou 
wouldst  have  given  her  to  thy  Lancastrian  enemy.  Coward,  to 
bribe  his  peace !  Recreant,  to  bely  thy  word !  I  thank  thee 
for  this  news,  Warwick;  for  without  that  injury  I  feel  I  could 
never,  when  the  hour  came,  have  drawn  sword  against  this  faith- 
less man — especially  for  Lancaster.  Ay,  tremble,  thou  who 
deridest  all  truth  and  honor!  He  who  himself  betrays,  cannot 
call  vengeance,  treason!" 

Meanwhile  Edward  departed,  for  farther  preparations,  to  the 
Tower  of  London.  New  evidences  of  the  mine  beneath  his 
feet  here  awaited  the  incredulous  King.  On  the  dt>or  of  St. 
Paul's,  of  many  of  the  metropolitan  churches,  on  the  standard 
at  Chepe,  and  on  London  Bridge,  during  the  past  night,  had 
been  affixed,  none  knew  by  whom,  the  celebrated  proclamation, 

*  Com.  iii.  c.  5. 


486  THE    LAST   OF    THE    BARONS. 

signed  by  Warwick  and  Clarence  (drawn  up  in  the  bold  style 
of  the  Earl),  announcing  their  speedy  return,  containing  a  brief 
and  vigorous  description  of  the  misrule  of  the  realm,  and  their 
determination  to  reform  all  evils  and  redress  all  wrongs.* 
Though  the  proclamation  named  not  the  restoration  of  the 
Lancastrian  line  (doubtless  from  regard  for  Henry's  safety), 
all  men  in  the  metropolis  were  already  aware  of  the  formid- 
able league  between  Margaret  and  Warwick.  Yet,  even  still, 
Edward  smiled  in  contempt,  for  he  had  faith  in  the  letter 
received  from  Clarence,  and  felt  assured  that  the  moment  the 
Duke  and  the  Earl  landed,  the  former  would  betray  his  com- 
panion stealthily  to  the  King  ;  so,  despite  all  these  exciting 
subjects  of  grave  alarm,  the  nightly  banquet  at  the  Tower  was 
never  merrier  and  more  joyous.  Hastings  left  the  feast  ere  it 
deepened  into  revel,  and,  absorbed  in  various  and  profound 
contemplation,  entered  his  apartment.  He  threw  himself  on  a 
seat,  and  leant  his  face  on  his  hands. 

"  Oh,  no  !  no  !  "  he  muttered  ;  "  now,  in  the  hour  when  true 
greatness  is  most  seen — when  prince  and  peer  crowd  around 
me  for  counsel — when  noble,  knight,  and  squire,  crave  per- 
mission to  march  in  the  troop  of  which  Hastings  is  the  leader — 
noui  I  feel  how  impossible,  how  falsely  fair,  the  dream  that  I 
could  forget  all — all  for  a  life  of  obscurity — for  a  young  girl's 
love  !  Love,  as  if  I  had  not  felt  its  delusions  to  palling  ! 
Love,  as  if  I  could  love  again  ;  or,  if  love — alas,  it  must  be  a 
light  reflected  but  from  memory  !  And  Katherine  is  free  once 
more  !  "  His  eye  fell,  as  he  spoke,  perhaps  in  shame  and 
remorse  that,  feeling  thus  now,  he  had  felt  so  differently  when 
he  bade  Sibyll  smile  till  his  return  ! 

"It  is  the  air  of  this  accursed  court  which  taints  our  best 
resolves  !  "  he  murmured  as  an  apology  for  himself ;  but 
scarcely  was  the  poor  excuse  made,  than  the  murmur  broke 
into  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and  joy.  A  letter  lay  before 
him — he  recognized  tiie  hand  of  Katherine.  What  years  had 
passed  since  her  writing  had  met  his  eye — since  the  lines  that 
bade  him  '  farewell,  and  forget '  !  Those  lines  had  been  blot- 
ted with  tears,  and  these,  as  he  tore  open  the  silk  that  bound 
them — these,  the  trace  of  tears,  too,  was  on  them  !  Yet  they 
were  but  few,  and  in  tremulous  characters.  They  ran  thus  : 

"  To-morrow,  before  noon,  the  Lord  Hastings  is  prayed  to 
visit  one  whose  life  he  hath  saddened  by  the  thought  and  the 
accusation  that  she  hath  clouded  and  embittered  his. 

"KATHERINE  UE  BONVILLE." 

*  See  /or  this  proclamation,  Ellis's  "  Original  Letters,"  vol.  i,  second  series,  letter  42. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  487 

Leaving  Hastings  to  such  meditations  of  fear  or  of  hope  as 
these  lines  could  call  forth,  we  lead  the  reader  to  a  room,  not 
very  distant  from  his  own — the  room  of  the  illustrious  Friar 
Bungey. 

The  ex-tregetour  was  standing  before  the  captured  Eureka, 
and  gazing  on  it  with  an  air  of  serio-comic  despair  and  rage. 
We  say  the  Eureka,  as  comprising  all  the  ingenious  contriv- 
ances towards  one  simple  object  invented  by  its  maker,  an 
harmonious  compound  of  many  separate  details  ;  but  the  iron 
creature  no  longer  deserved  that  superb  appellation,  for  its 
various  members  were  now  disjointed  and  dislocated,  and  lay 
pele  mele  in  multiform  confusion. 

By  the  side  of  the  friar  stood  a  female  enveloped  in  a  long 
scarlet  mantle,  with  the  hood  partially  drawn  over  the  face,  but 
still  leaving  visible  the  hard,  thin,  villanous  lips,  the  stern, 
sharp  chin,  and  the  jaw  resolute  and  solid  as  if  hewed  from 
stone. 

"  I  tell  thee,  Graul,"  said  the  friar,  "that  thou  hast  had  far 
the  best  of  the  bargain.  I  have  put  this  diabolical  contrivance 
to  all  manner  of  shapes,  and  have  muttered  over  it  enough 
Latin  to  have  charmed  a  monster  into  civility.  And  the  ac- 
cursed thing,  after  nearly  pinching  off  three  fingers,  and 
scalding  me  with  seething  water,  and  spluttering  and  sput- 
tering enough  to  have  terrified  any  man  but  Friar  Bungey  out 
of  his  skin,  is  obstinatus  ut  mulum — dogged  as  a  mule  ;  and  was 
absolutely  good  for  nought,  till  I  happily  thought  of  separating 
this  vessel  from  all  the  rest  of  the  gear, — and  it  serves  now  for 
the  boiling  of  my  eggs  !  But  by  the  soul  of  Father  Merlin, 
whom  the  saints  assoil,  I  need  not  have  given  myself  all  this 
torment,  for  a  thing  which,  at  best,  does  the  work  of  a  farth- 
ing pipkin  ! " 

"  Quick,  master — the  hour  is  late  !  I  must  go  while  yet  the 
troopers,  and  couriers,  and  riders,  hurrying  to  and  fro,  keep 
the  gates  from  closing.  What  wantestthou  with  Graul?" 

"  More  reverence,  child  !  "  growled  the  friar.  "  What  I  want 
of  thee  is  briefly  told  ;  if  thou  hast  the  wit  to  serve  me.  This 
miserable  Warner  must  himself  expound  to  me  the  uses  and 
trick  of  this  malignant  contrivance.  Thou  must  find  and  bring 
him  hither !  " 

"  And  if  he  will  not  expound  ? " 

"  The  deputy-governor  of  the  Tower  will  lend  me  a  stone 
dungeon,  and,  if  need  be,  the  use  of  the  brake,  to  unlock  the 
dotard's  tongue." 

"On  what  plea?" 


4S8  HIE    LAST   OF   THE    BARONS. 

"  That  Adam  Warner  is  a  wizard,  in  the  pay  of  Lord  War- 
wick, whom  a  more  mighty  master  like  myself  alone  can  duly 
examine  and  defeat." 

"  And  if  I  bring  thee  the  sorcerer — what  wilt  thou  teach  me 
in  return  ? " 

"  What  desirest  thou  most  ? " 

Graul  mused,  and  said  :  "  There  is  war  in  the  wind.  Graul 
follows  the  camp — her  trooper  gets  gold  and  booty.  But  the 
trooper  is  stronger  than  Graul  ;  and  when  the  trooper  sleeps,  it 
is  with  his  knife  by  his  side,  and  his  sleep  is  light  and  broken, 
for  he  has  wicked  dreams.  Give  me  a  potion  to  make  sleep 
deep,  that  his  eyes  may  not  open  when  Graul  niches  his  gold, 
and  his  hand  may  be  too  heavy  to  draw  the  knife  from  its 
sheath  !  " 

"  Jmmunda — detestabilis  ! — thine  own  paramour  !  " 

"He  hath  beat  me  with  his  bridle  rein  ;  he  hath  given  a  sil- 
ver broad  piece  to  Grisell — Grisell  hath  sate  on  his  knee-v 
Graul  never  pardons  !  " 

The  Friar,  rogue  as  he  was,  shuddered  :  "  I  cannot  help 
thee  to  murder,  I  cannot  give  thee  the  potion  ;  name  some 
other  reward." 

"  I  go—" 

"  Nay,  nay — think — pause." 

"  I  know  where  Warner  is  hid.  By  this  hour  to-morrow 
night,  I  can  place  him  in  thy  power.  Say  the  word,  and  pledge 
me  the  draught." 

"  Well,  well,  mulier  abominabilis — that  is,  irresistible  bon- 
nibel — I  cannot  give  thee  the  potion  ;  but  I  will  teach  thee  an 
art  which  can  make  sleep  heavier  than  the  anodyne,  and  which 
wastes  not  like  the  essence,  but  strengthens  by  usage  ;  an  art 
thou  shall  have  at  thy  finger's  ends,  and  which  often  draws 
from  the  sleeper  the  darkest  secrets  of  his  heart ! "  * 

"It  is  magic,"  said  Graul,  with  joy. 

"Ay,  magic." 

"I  will  bring  thee  the  Wizard.  But  listen;  he  never  stirs 
abroad,  save  with  his  daughter.  I  must  bring  both." 

"Nay,  I  want  not  the  girl." 

"But  I  dare  not  throttle  her,  for  a  great  lord  loves  her — 
who  would  find  out  the  deed  and  avenge  it ;  and,  if  she 
be  left  behind,  she  will  go  to  the  lord,  and  the  lord  will 
discover  what  thou  hast  done  with  the  Wizard,  and  thou  wilt 
hang  !  " 

*  We  have  before  said  that  animal  magnetism  was  known  to  Bungey,  and  familiar  to  th» 
necromancers  or  rather  theurgists  of  the  middle  ages. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  489 

"  Never  say,  '  Hang  '  to  me,  Graul — it  is  ill-mannered  and 
ominous.  Who  is  the  lord  ? " 

"  Hastings." 

"Pest !  And  already  he  hath  been  searching  for  the  thing 
yonder  ;  and  I  have  brooded  over  it  night  and  day,  like  a  hen 
over  a  chalk  egg — only  that  the  egg  does  not  snap  off  the  hen's 
claws,  as  that  diabolism  would  fain  snap  off  my  digits.  But 
the  war  will  carry  Hastings  away  in  its  whirlwind  ;  and,  in 
danger,  the  Duchess  is  my  slave,  and  will  bear  me  through  all. 
So  thou  mayst  bring  the  girl ;  and  strangle  her  not  ;  for  no 
good  ever  comes-  of  a  murder — unless  indeed,  it  be  absolutely 
necessary  ! " 

"  I  know  the  men  who  will  help  me,  bold  ribauds,  whom  I 
will  guerdon  myself  ;  for  I  want  not  thy  coins,  but  thy  craft. 
When  the  curfew  has  tolled,  and  the  bat  hunts  the  moth,  we 
will  bring  thee  the  quarry — " 

Graul  turned  ;  but  as  she  gained  the  door,  she  stopped,  and 
said  abruptly,  throwing  back  her  hood  : 

"  What  age  dost  thou  deem  me?  " 

"  Marry,"  quoth  the  Friar,  "  an'  I  had  not  seen  thee  on  thy 
mother's  knee,  when  she  followed  my  stage  of  tregetour,  I 
should  have  guessed  thee  for  thirty,  but  thou  hast  led  too 
jolly  life  to  look  still  in  the  blossom — why  speer'st  thou  fhe 
question  ?" 

"  Because  when  trooper  and  ribaud  say  to  me  :  '  Graul,  thou 
art  too  worn  and  too  old  to  drink  of  our  cup,  and  sit  in  the 
lap,  to  follow  the  young  fere  to  the  battle,  and  weave  the 
blithe  dance  in  the  fair,' — I  would  depart  from  my  sisters,  and 
have  a  hut  of  my  own — and  a  black  cat  without  a  white  hair, 
and  steal  herbs  by  the  new  moon,  and  bones  from  the 
charnel — and  curse  those  whom  I  hate,  and  cleave  the  misty 
air  on  a  besom,  like  Mother  Halkin  of  Edmonton.  Ha  !  ha  ! 
Master,  thou  shall  present  me  then  to  the  Sabbat.  Graul  has 
the  mettle  for  a  bonny  witch  !  " 

The  tymbestere  vanished  with  a  laugh.  The  friar  muttered 
a  pater-noster  for  once  perchance,  devoutly  ;  and  after  having 
again  deliberately  scanned  the  disjecta  membra  of  the  Eureka, 
gravely  took  forth  a  duck's  egg  from  his  cupboard,  and  applied 
the  master-agent  of  the  machine  which  Warner  hoped  was  to 
change  the  face  of  the  globe  to  the  only  practical  utility  it 
possessed  to  the  mountebank's  comprehension  ! 


490  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  MEETING  OF  HASTINGS  AND  KATHERINE. 

THE  next  morning,  while  Edward  was  engaged  in  levying 
from  his  opulent  citizens  all  the  loans  he  could  extract,  know- 
ing that  gold  is  the  sinew  of  war — while  Worcester  was  manning 
the  fortress  of  the  Tower,  in  which  the  Queen,  then  near 
her  confinement,  was  to  reside  during  the  campaign — while 
Gloucester  was  writing  commissions  to  captains  and  barons  to 
raise  men — while  Sir  Anthony  Lord  Rivers  was  ordering  im- 
provements in  his  dainty  damasquine  armor — and  the  whole 
Fortress  Palatine  was  animated  and  alive  with  the  stir  of  the 
coming  strife — Lord  Hastings  escaped  from  the  bustle,  and  re- 
paired to  the  house  of  Katherine.  With  what  motive,  with 
what  intentions,  was  not  known  clearly  to  himself ;  perhaps, 
for  there  was  bitterness  in  his  very  love  for  Katherine,  to  en- 
joy the  retaliation  due  to  his  own  wounded  pride,  and  say  to  the 
:dol  of  his  youth,  as  he  had  said  to  Gloucester  :  "  Time  is — 
time  was  ";  perhaps  with  some  remembrance  of  the  faith  due  to 
Sibyll,  wakened  up  the  more  now  that  Katherine  seemed 
actually  to  escape  from  the  ideal  image  into  the  real  woman, 
to  be  easily  wooed  and  won.  But  certainly  Sibyll's  cause  was 
not  wholly  lost,  though  greatly  shaken  and  endangered,  when 
Lord  Hastings  alighted  at  Lady  Bonville's  gate  ;  but  his  face 
gradually  grew  paler,  his  mien  less  assured,  as  he  drew  near 
and  nearer  to  the  apartment  and  the  presence  of  the  widowed 
Katherine. 

She  was  seated  alone,  and  in  the  same  room  in  which  he  had 
last  seen  her.  Her  deep  mourning  only  served,  by  contrast- 
ing the  pale  and  exquisite  clearness  of  her  complexion,  to  en- 
hance her  beauty.  Hastings  bowed  low,  and  seated  himselt 
by  her  side  in  silence. 

The  Lady  of  Bonville  eyed  him  for  some  moments  with  an 
unutterable  expression  of  melancholy  and  tenderness.  All  her 
pride  seemed  to  have  gone  ;  the  very  character  of  her  face  was 
changed  :  grave  severity  had  become  soft  timidity,  and  stately 
self-control  was  broken  into  the  unmistaken  struggle  of  hope 
and  fear. 

"Hastings — William!"  she  said,  in  a  gentle  and  low  whis- 
per, and  at  the  sound  of  that  last  name  from  those  lips,  the 
noble  felt  his  veins  thrill  and  his  heart  throb.  "If,"  she  con- 
tinued, "the  step  I  have  taken  seems  to  thee  unwomanly 
f.nd  too  bold,  know,  at  least,  what  was  my  design  and  my  ex- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  49! 

cuse.  There  was  a  time  (and  Katherine  blushed)  when  them 
knowest  well  that,  had  this  hand  been  mine  to  bestow,  it  would 
have  been  his  who  claimed  the  half  of  this  ring."  And  Katherine 
took  from  a  small  crystal  casket  the  well -remembered  token. 

"  The  broken  ring  foretold  but  the  broken  troth,"  said 
Hastings,  averting  his  face. 

"  Thy  conscience  rebukes  thy  words,"  replied  Katherine 
sadly  ;  "  I  pledged  my  faith,  if  thou  couldst  win  my  father's 
word.  What  maid,  and  that  maid  a  Nevile,  could  so  forget 
duty  and  honor,  as  to  pledge  thee  more  ?  We  were  severed. 
Pass,  oh,  pass  over  that  time  !  My  father  loved  me  dearly  ; 
but  when  did  pride  and  ambition  ever  deign  to  take  heed  of 
the  wild  fancies  of  a  girl's  heart  ?  Three  suitors,  wealthy 
lords,  whose  alliance  gave  strength  to  my  kindred,  in  the  day 
when  their  very  lives  depended  on  their  swords,  were  rivals  for 
Earl  Salisbury's  daughter.  Earl  Salisbury  bade  his  daughter 
choose.  Thy  great  friend,  and  my  own  kinsman,  Duke  Rich- 
ard of  York,  himself  pleaded  for  thy  rivals.  He  proved  to  me 
that  my  disobedience — if,  indeed,  for  the  first  time,  the  child 
of  my  house  could  disobey  its  chief — would  be  an  eternal 
barrier  to  thy  fortune ;  that  while  Salisbury  was  thy  foe,  he 
himself  could  not  advance  thy  valiancy  and  merit ;  that  it  was 
with  me  to  forward  thy  ambition,  though  I  could  not  reward 
thy  love  ;  that  from  the  hour  I  was  another's,  my  mighty  kins- 
men themselves — for  they  were  generous — would  be  the  first 
to  aid  the  Duke  in  thy  career.  Hastings,  even  then  I  would 
have  prayed,  at  least,  to  be  the  bride,  not  of  man,  but  God. 
But  I  was  trained — as  what  noble  demoiselle  is  not  ? — to  sub- 
mit wholly  to  a  parent's  welfare  and  his  will.  As  a  nun,  I 
could  but  pray  for  the  success  of  my  father's  cause ;  as  a  wife, 
I  should  bring  to  Salisbury  and  to  York  the  retainers  and  the 
stronghold  of  a  baron  !  I  obeyed.  Hear  me  on.  Of  the 
three  suitors  for  my  hand,  two  were  young  and  gallant — women 
deemed  them  fair  and  comely  ;  and  had  my  choice  been  one 
of  these,  thou  mightest  have  deemed  that  a  new  love  had 
chased  the  old.  Since  choice  was  mine,  I  chose  the  man  love 
could  not  choose,  and  took  this  sad  comfort  to  my  heart :  '//£, 
the  forsaken  Hastings,  will  see,  in  my  very  choice,  that  I  was 
but  the  slave  of  duty — my  choice  itself  my  penance.'  " 

Katherine  paused,  and  tears  dropped  fast  from  her  eyes. 
Hastings  held  his  hand  over  his  countenance,  and  only  by  the 
heaving  of  his  heart  was  his  emotion  visible.  Katherine 
resumed : 

''  Once  wedded,  I  knew  what  became  a  wife.     We  met  again  ; 


492  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

and  to  thy  first  disdain  and  anger  (which  it  had  been  dishonor 
in  me  to  soothe  by  one  word  that  said,  '  The  wife  remembers 
the  maiden's  love  ') — to  these,  thy  first  emotions,  succeeded 
the  more  cruel  revenge,  which  would  have  changed  sorrow 
and  struggle  to  remorse  and  shame.  And  then,  then — weak 
woman  that  I  was — I  wrapped  myself  in  scorn  and  pride. 
Nay,  I  felt  deep  anger — was  it  unjust? — that  thou  couldst  so 
misread,  and  so  repay,  the  heart  which  had  nothing  left,  save 
virtue,  to  compensate  for  love.  And  yet,  yet,  often  when  thou 
didst  deem  me  most  hard,  most  proof  against  memory  and 
feeling — but  why  relate  the  trial  ?  Heaven  supported  me,  and 
if  thou  lovest  me  no  longer,  thou  canst  not  despise  me." 

At  these  last  words  Hastings  was  at  her  feet,  bending  over 
her  hand,  and  stifled  by  his  emotions.  Katherine  gazed  at 
him  for  a  moment  through  her  own  tears,  and  then  resumed  : 

"  But  thou  hadst,  as  man,  consolations  no  woman  would 
desire  or  covet.  And  oh,  what  grieved  me  most  was,  not — no, 
not  the  jealous,  the  wounded  vanity, but  it  was.  at  least  this 
self-accusation,  this  remorse,  that,  but  for  one  goading  remem- 
brance, of  love  returned  and  love  forsaken,  thou  hadst  never 
so  descended  from  thy  younger  nature,  never  so  trifled  with 
the  solemn  trust  of  TIME.  Ah,  when  I  have  heard,  or  seen,  or 
fancied  one  fault  in  thy  maturer  manhood,  unworthy  of  thy 
bright  youth,  anger  of  myself  has  made  me  bitter  and  stern  to 
thee  ;  and  if  I  taunted,  or  chid,  or  vexed  thy  pride,  how  little 
didst  thou  know  that  through  the  too  shrewish  humor  spoke 
the  too  soft  remembrance  !  For  this — for  this  ;  and  believing 
that  through  all,  alas !  ^  image  was  not  replaced — when  my 
hand  was  free,  I  was  gratefu!  that  I  might  still  (the  lady's  pale 
cheek  grew  brighter  than  the  rose,  her  voice  faltered,  and 
became  low  and  indistinct) — I  might  still  think  it  mine  to  atone 
to  thee  for  the  past.  And  if,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden  and 
generous  energy,  "  if  in  this  I  have  bowed  my  pride,  it  is  be- 
cause by  pride  thou  wert  wounded  ;  and  now,  at  last,  thou 
hast  a  just  revenge." 

O  terrible  rival  for  thee,  lost  Sibyll !  Was  it  wonderful  that, 
while  that  head  drooped  upon  his  breast,  while  in  that  en- 
chanted change  which  love  the  softener  makes  in  lips  long 
scornful,  eyes  long  proud  and  cold,  he  felt  that  Katherine 
Nevile — tender,  gentle,  frank  without  boldness,  lofty  without 
arrogance — had  replaced  the  austere  dame  of  Bonville,  whom 
he  half-hated  while  he  wooed — oh,  was  it  wonderful  that  the 
soul  of  Hastings  fled  back  to  the  old  time,  forgot  the  inter- 
vening vows  and  more  chill  affections,  and  repeated  only  with 


LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  493 

passionate   lips  :  "  Katharine,  loved  still,    loved  ever — mine, 
mine  at  last  !  " 

Then  followed  delicious  silence  ;  then  vows,  confessions, 
questions,  answers — the  thrilling  interchange  of  hearts  long 
divided,  and  now  rushing  into  one.  And  time  rolled  on,  till 
Katherine,  gently  breaking  from  her  lover,  said  : 

"  And  now  that  thou  hast  the  right  to  know  and  guide  my 
projects,  approve,  I  pray  thee,  my  present  purpose.  War 
awaits  thee,  and  we  must  part  awhile  !  "  At  these  words  her 
brow  darkened,  and  her  lip  quivered.  "  Oh,  that  I  should 
have  lived  to  mourn  the  day  when  Lord  Warwick,  untrue  to 
Salisbury  and  to  York,  joined  his  arms  with  Lancaster  and 
Margaret — the  day  when  Katherine  could  blush  for  the 
brother  she  had  deemed  the  glory  of  her  house  !  No,  no  (she 
continued,  as  Hastings  interrupted  her  with  generous  excuses 
for  the  Earl,  and  allusion  to  the  known  slights  he  had  re- 
ceived)— No,  no  ;  make  not  his  cause  the  worse,  by  telling 
me  that  an  unworthy  pride,  the  grudge  of  some  thwart  to  his 
policy  or  power,  has  made  him  forget  what  was  due  to  the 
memory  of  his  kinsman  York,  to  the  mangled  corpse  of  his 
father  Salisbury.  Thinkest  thou,  that  but  for  this,  I  could — " 
She  stopped,  but  Hastings  divined  her  thought,  and  guessed 
that,  if  spoken,  it  had  run  thus  :  "  That  I  could,  even  now, 
have  received  the  homage  of  one  who  departs  to  meet,  with 
banner  and  clarion,  my  brother  as  his  foe?"  The  lovely 
sweetness  of  the  late  expression  had  gone  from  Katherine's 
face,  and  its  aspect  showed  that  her  high  and  ancestral  spirit 
had  yielded  but  to  one  passion.  She  pursued : 

"  While  this  strife  lasts,  it  becomes  my  widowhood,  and  kin- 
dred position  with  the  Earl,  to  retire  to  the  convent  my  mother 
founded.  To-morrow  I  depart." 

"  Alas !  "  said  Hastings,  "  thou  speakest  of  the  strife  as  if 
but  a  single  field.  But  Warwick  returns  not  to  these  shores, 
nor  bows  himself  to  league  with  Lancaster,  for  a  chance  haz- 
ardous and  desperate,  as  Edward  too  rashly  deems  it.  It  is  in 
vain  to  deny  that  the  Earl  is  prepared  for  a  grave  and  length- 
ened war,  and  much  I  doubt  whether  Edward  can  resist  his 
power  ;  for  the  idolatry  of  the  very  land  will  swell  the  ranks 
of  so  dread  a  rebel.  What  if  he  succeed — what  if  we  be 
driven  into  exile,  as  Henry's  friends  before  us — what  if  the 
king-maker  be  the  king-dethroner  ? — then,  Katherine,  then, 
once  more  thou  wilt  be  at  the  hest  of  thy  hostile  kindred,  and 
once  more,  dowered  as  thou  art,  and  thy  womanhood  still  in 
its  richest  bloom,  thy  hand  will  be  lost  to  Hastings." 


494  THE    I'AST    OF   THE    BARONS. 

"  Nay,  if  that  be  all  thy  fear,  take  with  thee  this  pledge — 
that  Warwick's  treason  to  the  house  for  which  my  father  fell, 
dissolves  his  power  over  one  driven  to  disown  him  as  a  brother, 
knowing  Earl  Salisbury,  had  he  foreseen  such  disgrace,  had 
disowned  him  as  a  son.  And  if  there  be  defeat,  and  flighlv 
and  exile,  wherever  thou  wanderest,  Hastings,  shall  Katherine 
be  found  beside  thee.  Fare  thee  well,  and  Our  Lady  shield 
thee  ;  may  thy  lance  be  victorious  against  all  foes — save  one. 
Thou  wilt  forbear  my — that  is,  the  Earl!1'  And  Katherine, 
softened  at  that  thought,  sobbed  aloud. 

"And  come  triumph  or  defeat,  I  have  thy  pledge?"  said 
Hastings,  soothing  her. 

"  See,"  said  Katherine,  taking  the  broken  ring  from  the  cas- 
ket ;  "  now,  for  the  first  time  since  I  bore  the  name  of  Bon- 
ville,  I  lay  this  relic  on  my  heart — art  thou  answered  ?  " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HASTINGS   LEARNS    WHAT    HAS    BEFALLEN    SIBYLL — REPAIRS    TO 
THE    KING,    AND    ENCOUNTERS    AN    OLD     RIVAL. 

"  IT  is  destiny,"  said  Hastings,  to  himself,  when  early  the  next 
Corning  he  was  on  his  road  to  the  farm.  "  It  is  destiny — and 
who  can  resist  his  fate  !  " 

"  It  is  destiny — phrase  of  the  weak  human  heart !  "  It  is 
destiny  !  " — dark  apology  for  every  error !  The  strong  and 
the  virtuous  admit  no  destiny  !  On  earth,  guides  Conscience ; 
in  heaven,  watches  God.  And  Destiny  is  but  the  phantom  we 
invoke  to  silence  the  one,  to  dethrone  the  other ! 

Hastings  spared  not  his  good  steed.  With  great  difficulty 
had  he  snatched  a  brief  respite  from  imperious  business,  to 
accomplish  the  last  poor  duty  now  left  to  him  to  fulfil — to 
confront  the  maid  whose  heart  he  had  seduced  in  vain,  and 
say,  at  length,  honestly  and  firmly :  "  I  cannot  wed  thee. 
Forget  me,  and  farewell." 

Doubtless,  his  learned  and  ingenious  mind  conjured  up 
softer  words  than  these,  and  more  purfled  periods  wherein 
to  dress  the  iron  truth.  But  in  these  two  sentences  the 
truth  lay.  He  arrived  at  the  farm — he  entered  the  house — 
he  felt  it  as  a  reprieve,  that  he  met  not  the  bounding  step  of 
the  welcoming  Sibyll.  He  sate  down  in  the  humble  chamber, 
and  waited  awhile  in  patience — no  voice  was  heard.  The 
silence  at  length  surprised  and  alarmed  him.  He  proceeded 
farther.  He  was  met  by  the  widowed  owner  of  the  house,  who 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  495 

Was  weeping  ;  and  her  first  greeting  prepared  him  for  what  had 
chanced.  "  Oh,  my  lord,  you  have  come  to  tell  me  they  are 
safe — they  have  not  fallen  into  the  hands  of  their  enemies — the 
good  gentleman,  so  meek — the  poor  lady,  so  fair  !  " 

Hastings  stood  aghast — a  few  sentences  more  explained  all 
that  he  had  already  guessed.  A  strange  man  had  arrived  the 
evening  before  at  the  house,  praying  Adam  and  his  daughter 
to  accompany  him  to  the  Lord  Hastings,  who  had  been  thrown 
from  his  horse,  and  was  now  in  a  cottage  in  the  neighboring 
lane — not  hurt  dangerously,  but  unaLIe  to  be  removed — and 
who  had  urgent  matters  to  communicate.  Not  questioning  the 
truth  of  this  story,  Adam  and  Sibyl  had  hurried  forth,  and 
returned  no  more.  Alarmed  by  their  long  absence,  the  widow, 
who  had  first  received  the  message  from  the  stranger,  went 
herself  to  the  cottage,  and  found  that  the  story  was  a  fable. 
Every  search  had  since  been  made  for  Adam  and  his  daughter, 
but  in  vain.  The  widow,  confirmed  in  her  previous  belief  that 
her  lodgers  had  been  attainted  Lancastrians,  could  but  suppose 
that  they  had  been  thus  betrayed  to  their  enemies.  Hastings 
heard  this  with  a  dismay  and  remorse  impossible  to  express. 
His  only  conjecture  was  that  the  King  had  discovered  their 
retreat,  and  taken  this  measure  to  break  off  the  intercourse  he 
had  so  sternly  denounced.  Full  of  these  ideas,  he  hastily 
remounted,  and  stopped  not  till  once  more  at  the  gates  of  the 
Tower.  Hastening  to  Edward's  closet,  the  moment  he  saw  the 
King,  he  exclaimed,  in  great  emotion  :  "  My  liege,  my  liege,  do 
not,  at  this  hour,  when  1  have  need  of  my  whole  energy  to  serve 
thee,  do  not  madden  my  brain,  and  palsy  my  arm.  This  old 
man — the  poor  maid — Sibyll — Warner — speak  ;  my  liege — only 
tell  me  they  are  safe — promise  me  they  shall  go  free,  and  I  swear 
to  obey  thee  in  all  else  !  I  will  thank  thee  in  the  battle-field  !  " 

"  Thou  art  mad,  Hastings  !  "  said  the  King,  in  great  aston- 
ishment. "  Hush  !  "  and  he  glanced  significantly  at  a  person 
who  stood  before  several  heaps  of  gold,  ranged  upon  a  table 
in  the  recess  of  the  room.  "  See,"  he  whispered,  "  yonder  is  the 
goldsmith,  who  hath  brought  me  a  loan  from  himself  and  his 
fellows  !  Pretty  tales  for  the  city  thy  folly  will  send  abroad  !  " 

But  before  Hastings  could  vent  his  impatient  answer,  this 
person,  to  Edward's  still  greater  surprise,  had  advanced  from 
his  place,  and  forgetting  all  ceremony,  had  seized  Hastings  by 
the  hem  of  his  surcoat,  exclaiming  : 

"  My  lord,  my  lord,  what  new  horror  is  this  ?  Sibyll  ! — 
methought  she  was  worthless,  and  had  fled  to  thee  !  " 

"Ten  thousand  devils  !  "  shouted  the  King — "  Am  I  ever  to 


496  liiK    LAST    OF    THE   BARON  >.. 

be  tormented  by  that  damnable  wizard  and  his  witch  child} 
And  is  it,  Sir  Peer  and  Sir  Goldsmith,  in  your  King's  closet 
that  ye  come,  the  very  eve  before  he  marches  to  battle,  to 
spear  and  glower  at  each  other  like  two  madmen  as  ye  are  !  " 

Neither  peer  nor  goldsmith  gave  way,  till  the  courtier,  nat- 
urally recovering  himself  the  first,  fell  on  his  knee,  and  said, 
with  firm,  though  profound  respect :  "  Sire,  if  poor  William 
Hastings  has  ever  merited  from  the  King  one  kindly  thought, 
one  generous  word,  forgive  now  \vhatever  may  displease  thee 
in  his  passion  or  his  suit,  and  tell  him  what  prison  contains 
those  whom  it  would  forever  dishonor  his  knighthood  to  know 
punished  and  endangered  for  his  offence." 

"  My  lord  !  "  answered  the  King,  softened,  but  still  sur- 
prised, "  think  you  seriously  that  I,  who  but  reluctantly,  in  this 
lovely  month,  leave  my  green  lawns  of  Shene  to  save  a  crown, 
could  have  been  vexing  my  brain  by  stratagems  to  seize  a  lass, 
whom  I  swear  by  St.  George  I  do  not  envy  thee  in  the  least  ? 
If  that  does  not  suffice,  incredulous  dullard,  why  then  take  my 
kingly  word,  never  before  passed  for  so  slight  an  occasion,  that 
I  know  nothing  whatsoever  of  thy  damsel's  whereabout — nor 
her  pestilent  father's — where  they  abode  of  late — where  they 
now  be — and,  what  is  more,  if  any  man  has  usurped  his  King's 
right  to  imprison  the  King's  subjects,  find  him  out,  and  name 
his  punishment.  Art  thou  convinced  ?  " 

"  I  am,  my  liege,"  said  Hastings. 

"  But — "  began  the  gold  mith. 

"  Holloa,  you  too,  sir  !  This  is  too  much  !  We  have  con- 
descended to  answer  the  man  who  arms  three  thousand 
retainers — " 

"  And  I,  please  your  Highness,  bring  you  the  gold  to  pay 
them,"  said  the  trader  bluntly. 

The  King  bit  his  lip,  and  then  burst  into  his  usual  merry 
laugh. 

"  Thou  art  in  the  right,  Master  Alwyn.  Finish  counting  the 
pieces,  and  then  go  and  consult  with  my  chamberlain — he  must 
off  with  the  cock-crow — but,  since  ye  seem  to  understand 
each  other,  he  shall  make  thee  his  lieutenant  of  search,  and  I 
will  sign  any  order  he  pleases  for  the  recovery  of  the  lost  wis- 
dom and  the  stolen  beauty.  Go  and  calm  thyself,  Hastings." 

"  I  will  attend  you  presently,  my  lord,"  said  Alwyn,  aside, 
"in  your  own  apartment." 

"  Do  so,"  said  Hastings  ;  and  grateful  for  the  King's  con- 
sideration, he  sought  his  rooms.  There,  indeed,  Alwyn  soon 
joined  him,  and  learned  from  the  nobleman  what  filled  him  at 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  497 

Once  with  joy  and  terror.  Knowing  that  Warner  and  Sibyll 
had  left  the  Tower,  he  had  surmised  that  the  girl's  virtue  had 
at  last  succumbed,  and  it  delighted  him  to  hear  from  Lord 
Hastings,  whose  word  to  men  was  never  questionable,  the  sol- 
emn assurance  of  her  unstained  chastity.  But  he  trembled  at 
this  mysterious  disappearance,  and  knew  not  to  whom  to  impute 
the  snare,  till  the  penetration  of  Hastings  suddenly  alighted 
near,  at  least,  to  the  clue.  "  The  Duchess  of  Bedford,"  said 
he,  "  ever  increasing  in  superstition  as  danger  increases,  may 
have  desired  to  re-find  so  great  a  scholar,  and  reputed  an  as- 
trologer and  magician — if  so,  all  is  safe.  On  the  other  hand, 
her  favorite,  the  friar,  ever  bore  a  jealous  grudge  to  poor  Adam, 
and  may  have  sought  to  abstract  him  from  her  Grace's  search — 
here,  there  may  be  molestation  to  Adam,  but  surely  no  danger 
to  Sibyll.  Hark  ye,  Alwyn,  thou  lovest  the  maid  more  worthily, 
and — "  Hastings  stopped  short,  for  such  is  infirm  human 
nature,  that,  though  he  had  mentally  resigned  Sibyll  forever, 
he  could  not  yet  calmly  face  the  thought  of  resigning  her  to  a 
rival.  "Thou  lovest  her,"  he  renewed,  more  coldly,  "and  to 
thee,  therefore,  I  may  safely  trust  the  search,  which  time,  and 
circumstance,  and  a  soldier's  duty  forbid  to  me.  And  be- 
lieve— oh,  believe,  that  I  say  not  this  from  a  passion  which 
may  move  thy  jealousy,  but  rather  with  a  brother's  holy  love. 
If  thou  canst  but  see  her  safe,  and  lodged  where  no  danger 
nor  wrong  can  find  her,  thou  hast  no  friend  in  the  wide 
world  whose  service  through  life  thou  mayst  command  like 
mine." 

"  My  lord,"  said  Alwyn  dryly,  "  I  want  no  friends  !  Young 
as  I  am,  I  have  lived  long  enough  to  see  that  friends  follow 
fortune,  but  never  make  it !  I  will  find  this  poor  maid  and  her 
honored  father,  if  I  spend  my  last  groat  on  the  search.  Get 
me  but  such  an  order  from  the  King  as  may  place  the  law  at 
my  control,  and  awe  even  her  Grace  of  Bedford — and  I  prom- 
ise the  rest ! " 

Hastings  much  relieved,  deigned  to  press  the  goldsmith's 
reluctant  hand  ;  and,  leaving  him  alone  for  a  few  minutes, 
returned  with  a  warrant  from  the  King,  which  seemed  to 
Alwyn  sufficiently  precise  and  authoritative.  The  goldsmith 
then  departed,  and  first  he  sought  the  friar,  but  found  him  not 
at  home.  Bungey  had  taken  with  him,  as  was  his  wont,  the 
keys  of  his  mysterious  apartment.  Alwyn  then  hastened  else- 
where, to  secure  those  experienced  in  such  a  search,  and  to 
head  it  in  person.  At  the  Tower  the  evening  was  passed  in 
bustle  and  excitement — the  last  preparations  for  departure. 


498  THE    LAST    OP   THE   BARONfe. 

The  Queen,  who  was  then  far  advanced  towards  her  confine- 
ment, was,  as  we  before  said,  to  remain  at  the  Tower,  which 
was  now  strongly  manned.  Roused  from  her  wonted  apathy 
by  the  imminent  dangers  that  awaited  Edward,  the  night  was 
passed  by  her  in  tears  and  prayers — by  him  in  the  sound  sleep 
of  confident  valor.  The  next  morning  departed  for  the  north 
the  several  leaders — Gloucester,  Rivers,  Hastings,  and  the  King. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    LANDING     OF     LORD   WARWICK,    AND    THE    EVENTS   THAT 
ENSUE    THEREON. 

AND  Charles  the  Bold,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  "  prepared  such 
a  greate  navie  as  lightly  hath  not  been  scene  before,  gathered  in 
manner  of  all  nations,  which  armie  laie  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Seyne  ready  to  fight  with  the  Earle  of  Warwick,  when  he  should 
set  out  of  his  harborovve."  * 

But  the  winds  fought  for  the  Avenger.  In  the  night  came  "  a 
terrible  tempest,"  which  scattered  the  Duke's  ships  "  one  from 
another,  so  that  two  of  them  were  not  in  cornpagnie  together 
in  one  place";  and  when  the  tempest  had  done  its  work,  it 
passed  away,  and  the  gales  were  fair,  and  the  heaven  was  clear. 
When,  the  next  day,  the  Earl  "halsed  up  the  sayles,"  and  came 
in  sight  of  Dartmouth. 

It  was  not  with  an  army  of  foreign  hirelings  that  Lord  War- 
wick set  forth  on  his  mighty  enterprise.  Scanty  indeed  were 
the  troops  he  brought  from  France — for  he  had  learned  from 
England  that  "  men,  so  much  daily  and  hourely  desired  and 
wished  so  sore  his  arrival  and  return,  that  almost  all  men  were 
in  harness,  looking  for  his  landyng."  f  As  his  ships  neared  the 

*  Hall,  p.  282.     Ed.  1809. 

t  The  popular  feeling  in  favor  of  the  Earl  is  described  by  Hall,  with  somewhat  more 
eloquence  and  vigor  than  are  common  with  that  homely  chronicler :  "  The  absence  of  the 
Earle  of  Warwick  made  the  common  people  daily  more  and  more  to  long,  and  bee  desirous 
to  have  the  sight  of  him,  and  presently  to  behold  his  personage.  For  they  judged  that  the 
sunne  was  clerely  taken  from  the  world  when  hee  was  absent.  In  such  high  estimation, 
amongst  the  people,  was  his  name,  that  neither  no  one  manne,  they  had  in  so  much  honor, 
neither  no  one  persone  they  so  much  praised,  or,  to  the  clouds,  so  highly  extolled.  What 
shall  I  say  ?  His  only  name  sounded  in  every  song,  in  the  mouth  of  the  common  people, 
and  his  persone  (effigies)  was  represented  with  great  reverence  when  publique  plaies  or 
open  triumphes  should  bee  shewed  or  set  furthe  abrode  in  the  stretes,"  etc.  This  lively 
passage,  if  not  too  highly  colored,  serves  to  show  us  the  rude  saturnalian  kind  of  liberty 
th,.t  existed,  even  under  a  king  so  vindictive  as  Edward  IV.  Though  an  individual  might 
be  hanged  for  the  jest 'that  he  would  make  his  son  heir  to  the  crown  (viz.,  the  grocer's 
shop,  which  bore  that  sign),  yet  no  tyranny  could  deal  with  the  sentiment  of  the  masses. 
In  our  own  day,  it  would  be  less  safe  than  in  that,  to  nr.ake  public  exhibition  "  in  plaies  and 
triumphes,"  of  sympathy  with  a  mac  attainted  as  a  traitor,  and  in  open  rebellion  to  the 
crown. 


THE   LAST   OF   THE   BARONS.  499 

coast,  and  the  Banner  of  the  Ragged  Staff,  worked  in  gold, 
shone  in  the  sun,  the  shores  swarmed  with  armed  crowds,  not 
to  resist  but  to  welcome.  From  cliff  to  cliff,  wide  and  far, 
blazed  rejoicing  bonfires  ;  and  from  cliff  to  cliff,  wide  and  far, 
burst  the  shout,  when,  first  of  all  his  men,  bareheaded,  but, 
save  the  burgonot,  in  complete  mail,  the  popular  hero  leapt 
to  shore. 

"When  the  Earle  had  taken  land,  he  made  a  proclamation, 
in  the  name  of  King  Henry  VI.,  upon  high  paynes,  command- 
ing and  charging  all  men  apt  or  able  to  bear  armor,  to  prepare 
themselves  to  fight  against  Edward,  Duke  of  York,  who  had 
untruly  usurped  the  croune  and  dignity  of  this  realm."  * 

And  where  was  Edward  ? — afar,  following  the  forces  of  Fitz- 
hugh  and  Robin  of  Redesdale,  who,  by  artful  retreat,  -drew  him 
farther  and  farther  northward,  and  left  all  the  other  quarters 
of  the  kingdom  free,  to  send  their  thousands  to  the  banners  of 
Lancaster  and  Warwick.  And  even  as  the  news  of  the  Earl's 
landing  reached  the  King,  it  spread  also  through  all  the  town? 
of  the  north — and  all  the  towns  in  the  north  were  in  "  a  great 
rore,  and  made  fires,  and  sang  songs,  crying — '  King  Henry  ! — 
King  Henry  !  a  Warwicke — a  Warwicke  !  '  '  But  his  warlike 
and  presumptuous  spirit  forsook  not  the  chief  of  that  bloody 
and  fatal  race — the  line  of  the  English  Pelops — "  bespattered 
with  kindred  gore."  f  A  messenger  from  Burgundy  was  in 
his  tent  when  the  news  reached  him.  "Back  to  the  Duke  !  " 
cried  Edward  ;  "  tell  hi<n  to  re-collect  his  navy,  guard  the  sea, 
scour  the  streams,  that  the  Earl  shall  not  escape,  nor  return 
to  France — for  the  doitigs  in  England,  let  me  alone  !  I  have 
ability  and  puissance  to  overcome  all  enemies  and  rebels  in 
mine  own  realm."  J 

And  therewith  he  raised  his  camp,  abandoned  the  pursuit  of 
Fitzhugh,  summoned  Montagu  to  join  him,  (it  being  now  safer 
to  hold  the  Marquis  near  him,  and  near  the  axe,  if  his  loyalty 
became  suspected),  and  marched  on  to  meet  the  Earl.  Nor 
did  the  Earl  tarry  from  the  encounter.  His  army,  swelling  as 
he  passed — and  as  men  read  his  proclamations  to  reform  all 
grievances  and  right  all  wrongs — he  pressed  on  to  meet  the 
King,  while  fast  and  fast  upon  Edward's  rear  came  the  troops 
of  Fitzhugh  and  Hilyard  ;  no  longer  flying  but  pursuing.  The 
King  was  the  more  anxious  to  come  up  to  Warwick,  inasmuch 
as  he  relied  greatly  upon  the  treachery  of  Clarence,  either 
secretly  to  betray  or  openly  to  desert  the  Earl.  And  he  knew 
that  if  he  did  the  latter  on  the  eve  of  a  battle,  it  could  not  fail 

*  Hall,  p.  82.  t  &<ch.  Again.  $  Hall,  p.  383. 


500  THE    LAST    OF    THF.    RARONS. 

morally  to  weaken  Warwick,  and  dishearten  his  army  by  fear 
that  desertion  should  prove,  as  it  ever  does,  the  most  conta- 
gious disease  that  can  afflict  a  camp.  It  is  probable,  however, 
that  the  enthusiasm  which  had  surrounded  the  Earl  with  vol- 
unteers so  numerous,  had  far  exceeded  the  anticipations  of  the 
inexperienced  Clarence,  and  would  have  forbid  him  that  op- 
portunity of  betraying  the  Earl.  However  this  be,  the  rival 
armies  drew  near  and  nearer.  The  King  halted  in  his  rapid 
march  at  a  small  village,  and  took  up  his  quarters  in  a  fortified 
house,  to  which  there  was  no  access  but  by  a  single  bridge.* 
Edward  himself  retired  for  a  short  time  to  his  couch,  for  he 
had  need  of  all  his  strength  in  the  battle  he  foresaw.  But 
scarce  had  he  closed  his  eyes,  when  Alexander  Carlile.f  the 
Serjeant  of  the  royal  minstrels,  followed  by  Hastings  and  Riv- 
ers, (their  jealousy  laid  at  rest  for  a  time  in  the  sense  of  their 
King's  danger),  rushed  into  his  room. 

"Arm,  sire,  arm! — Lord  Montagu  has  thrown  off  the  mask, 
and  rides  through  thy  troops,  shouting,  '  Long  live  King 
Henry  !  ' 

"  Ah,  traitor !  "  cried  the  King,  leaping  from  his  bed. 
"  From  Warwick,  hate  was  my  due — but  not  from  Montagu  ! 
Rivers,  help  buckle  on  my  mail.  Hastings,  post  my  body- 
guard at  the  bridge.  We  will  sell  our  lives  dear." 

Hastings  vanished.  Edward  had  scarcely  hurried  on  his 
helm,  cuirass,  and  greaves,  when  Gloucester  entered,  calm  in 
the  midst  of  peril. 

"  Your  enemies  are  marching  to  seize  you,  brother.  Hark  ! 
behind  you  rings  the  cry,  '  A  Fitzhugh — a  Robin — death  to 
the  tyrant!'  Hark!  in  front,  'A  Montagu — a  Warwick — 
Long  live  King  Henry  !  '  I  come  to  redeem  my  word — to 
share  your  exile  or  your  death.  Choose  either  while  there  is 
yet  time.  Thy  choice  is  mine  !  " 

And  while  he  spoke,  behind,  before,  came  the  various  cries 
near  and  nearer.  The  lion  of  March  was  in  the  toils. 

"  Now,  my  two-handed  sword  !  "  said  Edward.  "  Glouces- 
ter, in  this  weapon  learn  my  choice  !  " 

But  now  all  the  principal  barons  and  captains,  still  true  to 
the  King,  whose  crown  was  already  lost,  flocked  in  a  body  to 
the  chamber.  They  fell  on  their  knees,  and  with  tears  im- 
plored him  to  save  himself  for  a  happier  day. 

"There  is  yet  time  to  escape,"  said  D'Eyncourt — "to  pass 
the  bridge — to  gain  the  seaport  !  Think  not  that  a  soldier's 
death  will  be  left  thee.  Numbers  will  suffice  to  encumber  thine 

*  Sharon  Turner.     Comines.  t  Hearne's  Fragment. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  501 

arm — to  seize  thy  person.  Live  not  to  be  Warwick's  prisoner — < 
shown  as  a  wild  beast  in  its  cage  to  the  hooting  crowd  !  " 

"  If  .,ot  on  thyself,"  exclaimed  Rivers,  "  have  pity  on  these 
loyal  gentlemen,  and  for  the  sake  of  their  lives  preserve  thine 
own.  What  is  flight  ?  Warwick  fled !  " 

"  True — and  returned  !  "  added  Gloucester.  "  You  are  right, 
my  lords.  Come,  sire,  we  must  fly.  Our  rights  fly  not  with 
us,  but  shall  fight  for  us  in  absence  !  " 

The  calm  WILL  of  this  strange  and  terrible  boy  had  its  effect 
upon  Edward.  He  suffered  his  brother  to  lead  him  from  the 
chamber,  grinding  his  teeth  in  impotent  rage.  He  mounted 
his  horse,  while  Rivers  held  the  stirrup,  and,  with  some  six  or 
seven  knights  and  earls,  rode  to  the  bridge,  already  occupied 
by  Hastings  and  a  small  but  determined  guard. 

"Come,  Hastings,"  said  the  King,  with  a  ghastly  smile — 
"  they  tell  us  we  must  fly  !  " 

"  True,  sire,  haste — haste  !  I  stay  but  to  deceive  the  enemy 
by  feigning  to  defend  the  pass,  and  to  counsel,  as  I  best  may, 
the  faithful  soldiers  we  leave  behind." 

"Brave  Hastings,"  said  Gloucester, pressing  his  hand,  "  you 
do  well,  and  I  envy  you  the  glory  of  this  post.  Come,  sire." 

"  Ay — ay,"  said  the  King,  with  a  sudden  and  fierce  cry,  "we 
go — but  at  least  slaughtering  as  we  go.  See  !  yon  rascal 
troop  ! — ride  we  through  the  midst  !  Havoc  and  revenge  !  " 

He  set  spurs  to  his  steed,  galloped  over  the  bridge,  and, 
before  his  companions  could  join  him,  dashed  alone  into  the 
very  centre  of  the  advanced  guard  sent  to  invest  the  fortress  : 
and  while  they  were  yet  shouting  :  "  Where  is  the  tyrant — 
where- is  Edward  ? — " 

"  Here  !  "  answered  a  voice  of  thunder — "  here,  rebels  and 
faytors,  in  your  ranks  !  " 

This  sudden  and  appalling  reply,  even  more  than  the  sweep 
of  the  gigantic  sword,  before  which  were  riven  sallet  and  mail,  as 
the  woodman's  axe  rives  the  fagot,  created  amongst  the  enemy 
that  singular  panic,  which  in  those  ages  often  scattered  numbers 
before  the  arm  and  the  name  of  one.  They  recoiled  in  con- 
fusion and  dismay.  Many  actually  threw  down  their  arms  and 
fled.  Through  a  path  broad  and  clear,  amidst  the  forest  of 
pikes,  Gloucester  and  the  captains  followed  the  flashing  track 
of  the  King,  over  the  corpses,  headless  or  limbless,  that  he 
felled  as  he  rode. 

Meanwhile,  with  a  truer  chivalry,  Hastings,  taking  advan- 
tage of  the  sortie  which  confused  and  delayed  the  enemy,  sum- 
moned such  of  the  loyal  as  were  left  in  the  fortress,  advised 


502  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

them  as  the  only  chance  of  life,  to  affect  submission  to  War- 
wick ;  but  when  the  time  came  to  remember  their  old  alle- 
giance,* and  promising  that  he  would  not  desert  them,  save  with 
life,  till  their  safety  was  pledged  by  the  foe,  reclosed  his  visor, 
and  rode  back  to  the  front  of  the  bridge. 

And  now  the  King  and  his  comrades  had  cut  their  way 
through  all  barrier,  but  the  enemy  still  wavered  and  lagged, 
till  suddenly  the  cry  of  "  Robin  of  Redesdale  !  "  was  heard, 
and  sword  in  hand,  Hilyard,  followed  by  a  troop  of  horse, 
dashed  to  the  head  of  the  besiegers,  and,  learning  the  King's 
escape,  rode  off  in  pursuit.  His  brief  presence  and  sharp  re- 
buke reanimated  the  falterers,  and  in  a  few  minutes  they  gained 
the  bridge. 

"Halt,  sirs,"  cried  Hastings;  "I  would  offer  capitulation 
to  your  leader  !  Who  is  he?" 

A  knight  on  horseback  advanced  from  the  rest. 

Hastings  lowered  the  point  of  his  sword. 

"  Sir,  we  yield  this  fortress  to  your  hands  upon  one  con- 
dition— our  men  yonder  are  willing  to  submit,  and  shout  with 
you  for  Henry  VI.  Pledge  me  your  word  that  you  and  your 
soldiers  spare  their  lives  and  do  them  no  wrong,  and  we  depart." 

"And  if  I  pledge  it  not  ?  "  said  the  knight. 

"  Then  for  every  warrior  who  guards  this  bridge  count  ten 
dead  men  amongst  your  ranks." 

"  Do  your  worst — our  bloods  are  up  !  We  want  life  for 
life  ! — revenge  for  the  subjects  butchered  by  your  tyrant  chief! 
Charge!  to  the  attack — charge!  pike  and  bill  !"  The  knight 
spurred  on,  the  Lancastrians  followed,  and  the  knight  reeled 
from  his  horse  into  the  moat  below,  felled  by  the  sword  of 
Hastings. 

For  several  minutes  the  pass  was  so  gallantly  defended  that 
the  strife  seemed  uncertain,  though  fearfully  unequal,  when 
Lord  Montagu  himself,  hearing  what  had  befallen,  galloped  to 
the  spot,  threw  down  his  truncheon,  cried  "  Hold  !  "  and  the 
slaughter  ceased.  To  this  nobleman,  Hastings  repeated  the 
terms  he  had  proposed. 

"  And,"  said  Montagu,  turning  with  anger  to  the  Lancas- 
trians, who  formed  a  detachment  of  Fitzhugh's  force — "  can 
Englishmen  insist  upon  butchering  Englishmen  ?  Rather 
thank  we  Lord  Hastings  that  he  would  spare  good  King  Henry 
so  many  subjects'  lives!  The  terms  are  gran  ted,  my  lord;  and 
your  own  life  also,  and  those  of  your  friends  around  you,  vainly 
brave  in  a  wrong  cause..  Depart !  " 

*  Sharon  Turner,  vol.  iii.  389. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  503 

"All,  Montagu,"  said  Hastings,  touched,  and  in  a  whisper, 
"  what  pity  that  so  gallant  a  gentleman  should  leave  a  rebel's 
blot  upon  his  scutcheon." 

"  When  chiefs  and  suzerains  are  false  and  perjured,  Lord 
Hastings,"  answered  Montagu,  "  to  obey  them  is  not  loyalty, 
but  serfdom;  and  revolt  is  not  disloyalty,  but  a  freeman's  duty. 
One  day  thou  mayst  know  that  truth,  but  too  late  ! "  * 

Hastings  made  no  reply — waved  his  hand  to  his  fellow-de- 
fenders of  the  bridge,  and,  followed  by  them,  went  slowly  and 
deliberately  on,  till  clear  of  the  murmuring  and  sullen  foe  ; 
then  putting  spurs  to  their  steeds,  these  faithful  warriors  rode 
fast  to  rejoin  their  King  :  overtook  Hilyard  on  the  way,  and 
after  a  fierce  skirmish  a  blow  from  Hastings  unhorsed  and  un- 
helmed  the  stalwart  Robin,  and  left  him  so  stunned  as  to  check 
further  pursuit.  They  at  last  reached  the  King,  and  gaining, 
with  him  and  his  party,  the  town  of  Lynn,  happily  found  one 
English  and  two  Dutch  vessels  on  the  point  of  sailing  ;  with- 
out other  raiment  than  the  mail  they  wore,  without  money,  the 
men  a  few  hours  before  hailed  as  sovereign  or  as  peers  fled 
from  their  native  land  as  outcasts  and  paupers.  New  dangers 
beset  them  on  the  sea  :  the  ships  of  the  Easterlings,  at  war 
both  with  France  and  England,  bore  down  upon  their  vessels. 
At  the  risk  of  drowning,  they  ran  ashore  near  Alcmaer.  The 
large  ships  of  the  Easterlings  followed  as  far  as  the  low 
water  would  permit,  "intendeing  at  the  fludde  to  have  obtained 
their  prey."}  In  this  extremity,  the  lord  of  the  province 
(Louis  of  Grauthuse)  came  aboard  their  vessels — protected  the 
fugitives  from  the  Easterlings — conducted  them  to  the  Hague — 
and  apprised  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  how  his  brother-in-law  had 
lost  his  throne.  Then  were  verified  Lord  Warwick's  predic- 
tions of  the  faith  of  Burgundy  !  The  Duke,  for  whose  alliance 
Edward  had  dishonored  the  man  to  whom  he  owed  his  crown, 
so  feared  the  victorious  Earl,  that  "  he  had  rather  have  heard 
of  King  Edward's  death  than  of  his  discomfiture."  J  And  his 
first  thought  was  to  send  an  embassy  to  the  king-maker,  praying 
the  amity  and  alliance  of  the  restored  dynasty. 

*  It  was  in  the  midst  of  his  own  conspiracy  against  Richard  of  Gloucester  that  the  head 
of  Lord  Hastings  fell. 

t  Hall.  t  Hall,  p.  278. 


504  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHAT  BEFEL  ADAM  WARNER  AND  SIBYLL,  WHEN  MADE  SUBJECT 
TO  THE  GREAT  FRIAR  BUNGEY. 

WE  must  now  return  to  the  Tower  of  London — not,  indeed, 
to  its  lordly  halls  and  gilded  chambers — but  to  the  room  of 
Friar  Bungey.  We  must  go  back  somewhat  in  time ;  and  on 
the  day  following  the  departure  of  the  King  and  his  lords,  con- 
jure up  in  that  strangely  furnished  apartment  the  form  of  the 
burly  friar,  standing  before  the  disorganized  Eureka,  with 
Adam  Warner  by  his  side. 

Graul,  as  we  have  seen,  had  kept  her  word,  and  Sibyll  and 
her  father,  having  fallen  into  the  snare,  were  suddenly  gagged, 
bound,  led  through  bypaths  to  a  solitary  hut,  where  a  covered 
wagon  was  in  waiting,  and  finally,  at  nightfall,  conducted  to 
the  Tower.  The  friar,  whom  his  own  repute,  jolly  affability, 
and  favor  with  the  Duchess  of  Bedford  made  a  considerable 
person  with  the  authorities  of  the  place,  had  already  obtained 
from  the  deputy-governor  an  order  to  lodge  two  persons,  whom 
his  zeal  for  the  King  sought  to  convict  of  necromantic  practices 
in  favor  of  the  rebellion,  in  the  cells  set  apart  for  such  unhappy 
captives.  Thither  the  prisoners  were  conducted.  The  friar 
did  not  object  to  their  allocation  in  contiguous  cells  ;  and  the 
gaoler  deemed  him  mighty  kind  and  charitable,  when  he  or- 
dered that  they  might  be  well  served  and  fed  till  their  exam- 
ination. 

He  did  not  venture,  however,  to  summon  his  captives  till  the 
departure  of  the  King,  when  the  Tower  was,  in  fact,  at  the  dis- 
position of  his  powerful  patroness,  and  when  he  thought  he 
might  stretch  his  authority  as  far  as  he  pleased,  unquestioned 
and  unchid. 

Now,  therefore,  on  the  day  succeeding  Edward's  departure, 
Adam  Warner  was  brought  from  his  cell,  and  led  to  the 
chamber  where  the  triumphant  friar  received  him  in  majestic 
state.  The  moment  Warner  entered,  he  caught  side  of  the 
chaos  to  which  his  Eureka  was  resolved,  and  uttering  a  cry  of 
mingled  grief  and  joy,  sprang  forward  to  greet  his  profaned 
treasure.  The  friar  motioned  away  the  gaoler  (whispering  him 
to  wait  without),  and  they  were  left  alone.  Bungey  listened 
with  curious  and  puzzled  attention  to  poor  Adam's  broken  in- 
terjections of  lamentation  and  anger,  and  at  last,  clapping  him 
roughly  on  the  back,  said  : 

"Thou  knowest  the  secret  of  this  magical  and  ugly  device  ; 


THE   LAST    OP    THE    BARONS.  505 

but  in  thy  hands  it  leads  only  to  ruin  and  perdition.  Tell  me 
that  secret,  and  in  my  hands  it  shall  turn  to  honor  and  profit. 
Porkey  verbey  !  I  am  a  man  of  few  words.  Do  this,  and  thou 
shall  go  free  with  thy  daughter,  and  I  wll  protect  thee,  and  give 
thee  moneys,  and  my  fatherly  blessing  ;  refuse  to  do  it,  and 
thou  shall  go  from  thy  snug  cell  into  a  black  dungeon  full  of 
newts  and  rats,  where  thou  shall  rot  till  thy  nails  are  like  birds' 
talons,  and  thy  skin  shrivelled  up  into  mummy,  and  covered 
with  hair  like  Tebuchadnezzar  !  " 

"  Miserable  varlet  !  Give  thee  my  secret — give  thee  my  fame, 
my  life.  Never  !  I  scorn  and  spit  at  thy  malice  !  " 

The  friar's  face  grew  convulsed  with  rage  :  "  Wretch  !  "  he 
roared  forth,  "  darest  thou  unslip  thy  houndlike  malignity 
upon  great  Bungey  ?  Knowest  thou  not  that  he  could  bid  the 
walls  open  and  close  upon  thee  ;  that  he  could  set  yon  serpents 
to  coil  round  thy  limbs,  and  yon  lizard  to  gnaw  out  lliine 
entrails  ?  Despise  not  my  mercy,  and  descend  to  plain  sense. 
What  good  didst  thou  ever  reap  from  thy  engine?  Why 
shouldst  thou  lose  liberty — nay,  life — if  I  will,  for  a  thing  that 
has  cursed  thee  with  man's  horror  and  hate  ?  " 

"  Art  thou  Christian  and  friar  to  ask  me  why  ?  Were  not 
Christians  themselves  hunted  by  wild  beasts,  and  burned  at  the 
stake,  and  boiled  in  the  caldron  for  their  belief?  Knave,  what- 
ever is  holiest,  men  ever  persecute  !  Read  thy  Bible  !  " 

"Read  the  Bible?"  exclaimed  Bungey,  in  pious  horror  at 
such  a  proposition.  "Ah!  blasphemer,  now  I  have  thee! 
Thou  art  a  heretic  and  Lollard.  Hollo — there  !  " 

The  friar  stamped  his  foot ;  the  door  opened,  but  to  his 
astonishment  and  dismay  appeared,  not  the  grim  gaoler,  but 
the  Duchess  of  Bedford  herself,  preceded  by  Nicholas  Alwyn. 

"  I  told  your  Grace  truly — see,  lady  !"  cried  the  goldsmith. 
"  Vile  impostor,  where  hast  thou  hidden  this  wise  man's 
daughler  ?  " 

The  friar  turned  his  dull,  bead-like  eyes,  in  vacant  consterna- 
tion, from  Nicholas  to  Adam,  from  Adam  to  the  Duchess. 

"  Sir  friar,"  said  Jacquetta  mildly,  for  she  wished  to  con- 
ciliate the  rival  seers,  "what  means  this  overzealous  violation 
of  law  ?  Is  it  true,  as  Master  Alwyn  affirms,  that  thou  hast 
stolen  away  and  seducted  this  venerable  sage  and  his  daughter — 
a  maid  I  deemed  worthy  of  a  post  in  my  own  household  ?  " 

"Daughter  and  lady,"  said  the  friar  sullenly,  "this  ill 
faytor,  1  have  reason  to  know,  has  been  practising  spells  for 
Lord  Warwick  and  the  enemy.  I  did  but  summon  him  hither 
that  my  art  mighl  undo  his  charms  ;  and  as  for  his  daughter, 


506  THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

it  seemed  more  merciful  to  let  her  attend  him,  than  to  leave  her 
dlone  and  unfriended,  specially,"  added  the  friar,  with  a  grin, 
"  since  the  poor  lord  she  hath  witched  is  gone  to  the  wars." 

"  It  is  true  then,  wretch,  that  thou  or  thy  caitiffs  have  dared 
to  lay  hands  on  a  maiden  of  birth  and  blood  !  "  exclaimed 
Alwyn.  "  Tremble  ! — see  here  the  warrant  signed  by  the  King, 
offering  a  reward  for  thy  detection,  empowering  me  to  give 
thee  up  to  the  laws.  By  St.  Dunstan  !  but  for  thy  friar's  frock, 
thou  shouldst  hang." 

"  Tut,  tut,  Master  Goldsmith  !  "  said  the  Duchess  haughtily  ; 
"  lower  thy  tone.  This  holy  man  is  under  my  protection,  and 
hi?  fault  was  but  over-zeal.  What  were  this  sage's  devices  and 
ppells?" 

"  Marry  !  "  said  the  friar  gruffly,  "  that  is  what  your  Grace 
just  hindereth  my  knowing.  But  he  cannot  deny  that  he  is  a 
pestilent  astrologer,  and  sends  word  to  the  rebels  what  hours 
are  lucky  or  fatal  for  battle  and  assault." 

"Ha  !  "  said  the  Duchess,  "he  is  an  astrologer  !  True,  and 
came  nearer  to  the  alchemist's  truth  than  any  multiplier  that 
ever  served  me  !  My  own  astrologer  is  just  dead — why  died  he 
at  such  a  time  ?  Peace  !  peace  !  be  there  peace  between  two 
so  learned  men  !  Forgive  thy  brother,  Master  Warner  !  " 

Adam  had  hitherto  disdained  all  participation  in  this  dia- 
logue. In  fact,  he  had  returned  to  the  Eureka,  and  was  silently 
examining  if  any  loss  of  the  vital  parts  had  occurred  in  its 
melancholy  dismemberment.  But  now  he  turned  round,  and 
said  :  "  Lady,  leave  the  lore  of  the  stars  to  their  great  Maker. 
1  forgive  this  man,  and  thank  your  Grace  for  your  justice.  I 
claim  these  poor  fragments,  and  crave  your  leave  to  suffer  me 
to  depart  with  my  device  and  my  child." 

"  No  !  no  !  "  said  the  Duchess,  seizing  his  hand.  "  Hist  ! 
whatever  Lord  Warwick  paid  thee,  I  will  double.  No  time 
now  for  alchemy  ;  but  for  the  horoscope,  it  is  the  veriest 
season.  I  name  thee  my  special  astrologer  !  " 

"Accept  !  accept  !"  whispered  Alwyn  :  "  for  your  daughter's 
sake — for  your  own — nay,  for  the  Eureka's!" 

Adam  bowed  his  head,  and  groaned  forth  :  "  But  I  go  not 
hence — no,  not  a  foot — unless  //forgoes  with  me.  Cruel  wretch, 
how  he  hath  deformed  it !  " 

"And  now,"  cried  Alwyn  eagerly,  "this  wronged  and  un- 
happv  maiden  ? " 

"  Go  !  be  it  thine  to  release  and  bring  her  to  our  presence, 
good  Alwyn,"  said  the  Duchess  ;  "  she  shall  lodge  with  her 
father,  and  receive  all  honor.  Follow  me,  Master  Warner  !  " 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  KARONS.  507 

No  sooner,  however,  did  the  friar  perceive  that  Alwyn  had 
gone  in  search  of  the  gaoler,  than  he  arrested  the  steps;  of  the 
Duchess,  and  said,  with  the  air  of  a  much-injured  man  : 

"  May  it  please  Your  Grace  to  remember,  that  unless  the 
greater  magician  have  all  power,  and  aid  in  thwarting  the  lesser, 
the  lesser  can  prevail  ;  and  therefore,  if  your  Grace  finds,  when 
too  late,  that  Lord  Warwick's  or  Lord  Fitzhugh's  arms  pros- 
per— that  woe  and  disaster  befall  the  King — say  not  it  was  the 
fault  of  Friar  Bungey  ! — such  things  may  be  !  Nathless  I  shall 
still  sweat,  and  watch,  and  toil ;  and  if  despite  your  unhappy 
favor  and  encouragement  to  this  hostile  sorcerer,  the  King  should 
beat  his  enemies,  why  when,  Friar  Bungey  is  not  so  powerless  as 
your  Grace  holds  him.  I  have  said — Porkey  verbey  ! — Vigilabo 
et  conabo — et  perspirabo — ethungerabo — -pro  vos  et  vestros,Amen  !  " 

The  Duchess  was  struck  by  this  eloquent  appeal  ;  but  more 
and  more  convinced  of  the  dread  science  of  Adam,  by  the  evident 
apprehensions  of  the  redoubted  Bungey,  and  firmly  persuaded 
that  she  could  bribe  or  induce  the  former  to  turn  a  science  that 
would  otherwise  be  hostile  into  salutary  account,  she  contented 
herself  with  a  few  words  of  conciliation  and  compliment,  and 
summoning  the  attendants  who  had  followed  her,  bade  them 
take  up  the  various  members  of  the  Eureka  (for  Adam  clearly 
demonstrated  that  he  would  not  depart  without  them),  and 
conducted  the  philosopher  to  a  lofty  chamber,  fitted  up  for  the 
defunct  astrologer. 

Hither,  in  a  short  time,  Alwyn  had  the  happiness  of  leading 
Sibyll,  and  witnessing  the  delighted  reunion  of  the  child  and 
father.  And  then  after  he  had  learned  the  brief  details  of  their 
abduction,  he  related  how,  baffled  in  all  attempt  to  trace  their 
clue,  he  had  convinced  himself  that  either  the  Duchess  or 
Bungey  was  the  author  of  the  snare,  returned  to  the  Tower, 
shown  the  King's  warrant,  learned  that  an  old  man  and  a  young 
female  had  indeed  been  admitted  into  the  fortress,  and  hurried 
at  once  to  the  Duchess,  who,  surprised  at  his  narration  and 
complaint,  and  anxious  to  regain  the  services  of  Warner,  had 
accompanied  him  at  once  to  the  friar. 

"  And  though,"  added  the  goldsmith,  "  I  could  indeed  pro- 
cure you  lodgings  more  welcome  to  ye  elsewhere,  yet  it  is  well 
to  win  the  friendship  of  the  Duchess,  and  royalty  is  ever  an  ill 
foe.  How  came  ye  to  quit  the  palace  ?  " 

Sibyll  changed  countenance,  and  her  father  answered  grave- 
ly :  "We  incurred  the  King's  displeasure,  and  the  excuse  was 
the  popular  hatred  of  me  and  the  Eureka." 

"  Heaven  made  the  people,  and  the  devil  makes  three-fourths 


508  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

of  what  is  popular  !  "  bluntly  said  the  Man  of  the  Middle  Class. 
ever  against  both  extremes. 

"And  how  ?"  asked  Sibyll — "how,  honored  and  true  friend, 
didst  thou  obtain  the  King's  warrant,  and  learn  the  snare  into 
which  we  had  fallen  ?" 

This  time  it  was  Alwyn  who  changed  countenance.  He 
mused  a  moment,  and  then  frankly  answering  :  "Thou  must 
thank  Lord  Hastings,"  gave  the  explanation  already  known  to 
the  reader. 

But  the  grateful  tears  this  relation  called  forth  from  Sibyll — 
her  clasped  hands — her  evident  emotion  of  delight  and  love,  so 
pained  poor  Alwyn,  that  he  rose  abruptly,  and  took  his  leave. 

And  now,  the  Eureka  was  a  luxury  as  peremptorily  forbid 
to  the  astrologer,  as  it  had  been  to  the  alchemist !  Again  the 
true  science  was  despised,  and  the  false  cultivated  and  honored. 
Condemned  to  calculations,  which  no  man  (however  wise)  in 
that  age  held  altogether  delusive,  and  which  yet  Adam  Warner 
studied  with  very  qualified  belief,  it  happened  by  some  of  those 
coincidences,  which  have  from  time  to  time  appeared  to  con- 
firm the  credulous  in  judicial  astrology,  that  Adam's  predictions 
became  fulfilled.  The  Duchess  was  prepared  for  the  first  tid- 
ings, that  Edward's  foes  fled  before  him.  She  was  next  pre- 
pared for  the  very  day  in  which  Warwick  landed,  and  then  her 
respect  for  the  astrologer  became  strangely  mingled  with  sus- 
picion and  terror,  when  she  found  that  he  proceeded  to  foretell 
but  ominous  and  evil  events  ;  and  when,  at  last,  still  in  corrob- 
oration  of  the  unhappily  too  faithful  horoscope,  came  the  news 
of  the  King's  flight,  and  the  Earl's  march  upon  London,  she 
fled  to  Friar  Bungey  in  dismay.  And  Friar  Bungey  said  : 

"  Did  I  not  warn  you,  daughter  ?    Had  you  suffered  me  to — " 

"True,  true  !  "  interrupted  the  Duchess.  " Now  take,  hang, 
rack,  drown,  or  burn  your  horrible  rival,  if  you  will,  but  undo 
the  charm,  and  save  us  from  the  Earl !  " 

The  friar's  eyes  twinkled,  but  to  the  first  thought  of  spite 
and  vengeance  succeeded  another.  If  he  who  had  made  the 
famous  waxen  effigies  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick  were  now  to  be 
found  guilty  of  some  atrocious  and  positive  violence  upon  Mas- 
ter Adam  Warner,  might  not  the  Earl  be  glad  of  so  good  an  ex- 
cuse to  put  an  end  to  himself? 

"Daughter,"  said  the  friar  at  that  reflection,  and  shaking  his 
head  mysteriously  and  sadly — "daughter,  it  is  too  late." 

The  Duchess,  in  great  despair,  flew  to  the  Queen.  Hitherto 
she  had  concealed  from  her  royal  daughter  the  employment 
she  had  given  to  Adam  ;  for  Elizabeth,  who  had  herself  suf- 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  509 

fered  from  the  popular  belief  in  Jacquetta's  sorceries,  had  of 
late  earnestly  besought  her  to  lay  aside  all  practices  that  could 
be  called  into  question.  Now,  however,  when  she  confessed  to 
the  agitated  and  distracted  Queen  the  retaining  of  Adam  War- 
ner, and  his  fatal  predictions,  Elizabeth,  who,  from  discretion 
and  pride,  had  carefully  hidden  from  her  mother  (too  vehe- 
ment to  keep  a  secret)  that  offence  in  the  King  the  memory 
of  which  had  made  Warner  peculiarly  obnoxious  to  him,  ex- 
claimed :  "  Unhappy  mother,  thou  hast  employed  the  very  man 
my  fated  husband  would  the  most  carefully  have  banished  from 
the  palace — the  very  man  who  could  blast  his  name." 

The  Duchess  was  aghast  and  thunderstricken. 

"  If  ever  I  forsake  Friar  Bungey  again  ! "  she  muttered — 

"  OH,  THE  GREAT  MAN  !  " 

But  events  which  demand  a  detailed  recital  now  rapidly  press- 
ing on,  gave  the  Duchess  not  even  the  time  to  seek  further 
explanation  of  Elizabeth's  words,  much  less  to  determine  the 
doubt  that  rose  in  her  enlightened  mind  whether  Adam's  spells 
might  not  be  yet  unravelled  by  the  timely  execution  of  the 
sorcerer ! 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    DELIBERATIONS    OF    MAYOR   AND    COUNCIL,    WHILE    LORD 
WARWICK  MARCHES   UPON  LONDON. 

IT  was  a  clear  and  bright  day  in  the  first  week  of  October, 
1470,  when  the  various  scouts  employed  by  the  mayor  and 
council  of  London  came  back  to  the  Guild,  at  which  that  wor- 
shipful corporation  were  assembled — their  steeds  blown  and 
jaded,  themselves  panting  and  breathless — to  announce  the 
rapid  march  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick.  The  lord  mayor  of  that 
year,  Richard  Lee,  grocer  and  citizen,  sat  in  the  venerable  hall 
in  a  hugh  leather  chair,  over  which  a  pall  of  velvet  had  been 
thrown  in  haste,  clad  in  his  robes  of  state,  and  surrounded  by 
his  aldermen  and  the  magnates  of  the  city.  To  the  personal 
love  which  the  greater  part  of  the  body  bore  to  the  young  and 
courteous  King,  was  added  the  terror  which  the  corporation 
justly  entertained  of  the  Lancastrian  faction.  They  remem- 
bered the  dreadful  excesses  which  Margaret  had  permitted  to 
her  army  in  the  year  1461 — what  time,  to  use  the  expression  of 
the  old  historian,  "  the  wealth  of  London  looked  pale";  and 
how  grudgingly  she  had  been  restrained  from  condemning  her 
revolted  metropolis  to  the  horrors  of  sack  and  pillage.  And 
the  bearing  of  this  august  representation  of  the  trade  and  power 


510  TMK    I. AS  I     OF    THK    BAKONS. 

of  London  was  not,  at  the  first,  unworthy  of  the  high  influence 
it  had  obtained.  The  agitation  and  disorder  of  the  hour  had 
introduced  into  the  assembly  several  of  the  more  active  and 
accredited  citizens,  not  of  right  belonging  to  it  ;  but  they  sat,  in 
silent  discipline  and  order,  on  long  benches,  beyond  the  table 
crowded  by  the  corporate  officers.  Foremost  among  these,  and 
remarkable  by  the  firmness  and  intelligence  of  his  countenance, 
and  the  earnest  self-possession  with  which  he  listened  to  his 
seniors,  was  Nicholas  Alwyn,  summoned  to  the  council  from 
his  great  influence  with  the  apprentices  and  younger  freemen 
of  the  city. 

As  the  last  scout  announced  his  news,  and  was  gravely  dis- 
missed, the  lord  mayor  rose  ;  and,  being,  perhaps,  a  better  edu- 
cated man  than  many  of  the  haughtiest  barons,  and  having  more 
at  stake  than  most  of  them,  his  manner  and  language  had  a  dig- 
nity and  earnestness  which  might  have  reflected  honor  on  the 
higher  court  of  Parliament. 

''Brethren  and  citizens,"  he  said,  with  the  decided  brevity  of 
one  who  felt  it  no  time  for  many  words,  "  in  two  hours  we  shall 
hear  the  clarions  of  Lord  Warwick  at  our  gates  ;  in  two  hours 
we  shall  be  summoned  to  give  entrance  to  an  army  assembled 
in  the  name  of  King  Henry.  I  have  done  my  duty— I  have 
manned  the  walls — I  have  marshalled  what  soldiers  we  can 
command.  I  have  sent  to  the  deputy-governor  of  the  Tower — " 

"And  what  answer  gives  he,  my  lord  mayor?"  interrupted 
Humfrey  Heyford. 

"  None  to  depend  upon.  He  answers  that  Edward  IV.,  in 
abdicating  the  kingdom,  has  left  him  no  power  to  resist ;  and 
that  between  force  and  force,  king  and  king,  might  makes  right." 

A  deep  breath  like  a  groan,  went  through  the  assembly. 

Up  rose  Master  John  Stokton,  the  mercer.  He  rose,  trem- 
bling from  limb  to  limb. 

"Worshipful  my  lord  mayor,"  said  he,  "it  seems  to  me  that 
our  first  duty  is  to  look  to  our  own  selves  !  " 

Despite  the  gravity  of  the  emergence,  a  laugh  burst  forth 
and  was  at  once  silenced,  at  this  frank  avowal. 

"Yes,"  continued  the  mercer,  turning  round  and  striking  the 
table  with  his  fist,  in  the  action  of  a  nervous  man — "  yes — for 
King  Edward  has  set  us  the  example.  A  stout  and  a  daunt- 
less champion,  whose  whole  youth  has  been  war,  King  Edward 
has  fled  from  the  kingdom — King  Edward  takes  care  of  him- 
self— it  is  our  duty  to  do  the  same  !  " 

Strange  though  it  may  seem,  this  homely  selfishness  went  at 
once  through  the  assembly,  like  a  flash  of  conviction.  There 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  51 X 

was  a  burst  of  applause,  and  as  it  ceased,  the  sullen  explosion 
of  a  bombard  (or  cannon),  from  the  city  wall,  announced  that 
the  warder  had  caught  the  first  glimpse  of  the  approaching  army. 

Master  Stokton  started  as  if  the  shot  had  gone  near  to  him- 
self, and  dropped  at  once  into  his  seat,  ejaculating,  "  The 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  !  "  There  was  a  pause  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  several  of  the  corporation  rose  simultaneously. 
The  mayor,  preserving  his  dignity,  fixed  on  the  sheriff. 

"  Few  words,  my  lord,  and  I  have  done,"  said  Richard  Gar- 
dyner  :  "  there  is  no  fighting  without  men.  The  troops  at 
the  Tower  are  not  to  be  counted  on.  The  populace  are  all 
with  Lord  Warwick,  even  though  he  brought  the  devil  at  his 
back.  If  you  hold  out,  look  to  rape  and  plunder  before  sunset 
to-morrow.  Jf  ye  yield,  go  forth  in  a  body,  and  the  Earl  is  not 
the  man  to  suffer  one  Englishman  to  be  injured  in  life  or 
health  who  once  trusts  to  his  good  faith.  My  say  is  said." 

"  Worshipful,  my  lord,"  said  a  thin,  cadaverous  alderman, 
who  rose  next  :  "This  is  a  judgment  of  the  Lord  and  His 
saints.  The  Lollards  and  heretics  have  been  too  much  suffered 
to  run  at  large,  and  the  wrath  of  Heaven  is  upon  us." 

An  impatient  murmuring  attested  the  unwillingness  of  the 
larger  part  of  the  audience  to  listen  further  ;  but  an  approving 
buzz  from  the  elder  citizens  announced  that  the  fanaticism  was 
not  without  its  favorers.  Thus  stimulated  and  encouraged, 
the  orator  continued  ;  and  concluded  an  harangue,  interrupted 
more  stormily  than  all  that  had  preceded,  by  an  exhortation  to 
leave  the  city  to  its  fate,  and  to  march  in  a  body  to  the  New 
Prison,  draw  forth  five  suspected  Lollards,  and  burn  them  at 
Smithfield,  in  order  to  appease  the  Almighty  and  divert  the 
tempest  ! 

This  subject  of  controversy,  once  started,  might  have  de- 
layed the  audience  till  the  ragged  staves  of  the  Warwickers 
drove  them  forth  from  their  hall,  but  for  the  sagacity  and 
promptitude  of  the  mayor. 

"  Brethren,"  he  said,  "  it  matters  not  to  me  whether  the  coun- 
sel suggested  be  good  or  bad,  on  the  main  ;  but  this  have  I 
heard — there  is  small  safety  in  death-bed  repentance.  It  is 
too  late  now,  to  do  through  fear  of  the  devil,  what  we  omitted 
to  do  through  zeal  for  the  Church.  The  sole  question  is, 
'  Fight  or  make  terms.'  Ye  say  we  lack  men — verily,  yes, 
while  no  leaders  are  found  !  Wahvorth,  my  predecessor,  saved 
London  from  Wat  Tyler.  Men  were  wanting  then  till  the 
mayor  and  his  fellow-citizens  marched  forth  to  Mile  End.  It 
may  be  the  same  now.  Agree  to  fight,  and  we'll  try  it  ;  what 


512  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

say  you,  Nicholas  Alwyn  ? — you  know  the  temper  of  our  young 
men." 

Thus  called  upon,  Alwyn  rose,  and  such  was  the  good  name 
he  had  already  acquired,  that  every  murmur  hushed  into  eager 
silence. 

"  My  lord  mayor,"  he  said,  "  there  is  a  proverb  in  my 
country,  which  says,  '  Fish  swim  best  that's  bred  in  the  sea'; 
which  means,  I  take  it,  that  men  do  best  what  they  are  trained 
for !  Lord  Warwick  and  his  men  are  training  for  fighting. 
Few  of  the  fish  about  London  Bridge  are  bred  in  that  sea  ! 
Cry  '  London  to  the  rescue  ! ' — put  on  hauberk  and  helm,  and 
you  will  have  crowns  enough  to  crack  around  you,  What  fol- 
lows? Master  Stokton  hath  said  it  :  pillage  and  rape  for  the 
city,  gibbet  and  cord  for  mayor  and  aldermen.  Do  I  say  this, 
loving  the  house  of  Lancaster ?  No;  as  Heaven  shall  judge 
me,  I  think  that  the  policy  that  King  Edward  hath  chosen, 
and  which  costs  him  his  crown  to-day,  ought  to  make  the  house 
of  York  dear  to  burgess  and  trader.  He  hath  sought  to  break 
up  the  iron  rule  of  the  great  barons — and  never  peace  to  Eng- 
land till  that  be  done.  He  has  failed  ;  but  for  a  day.  He  has 
yielded  for  the  time  ;  so  must  we.  '  There's  a  time  to  squint, 
and  a  time  to  look  even.'  I  advise  that  we  march  out  to  the 
Earl  ;  that  we  make  honorable  terms  for  the  city  ;  that  we  take 
advantage  of  one  faction  to  gain  what  we  have  not  gained  with 
the  other  ;  that  we  fight  for  our  profit,  not  with  swords  where 
we  shall  be  worsted,  but  in  council  and  Parliament,  by  speech 
and  petition.  New  power  is  ever  gentle  and  douce.  What 
matters  to  us  York  or  Lancaster?  All  we  want  is  good  laws. 
Get  the  best  we  can  from  Lancaster ;  and  when  King  Edward 
returns,  as  return  he  will,  let  him  bid  higher  than  Henry  for 
our  love.  Worshipful  my  lords  and  brethren,  while  barons  and 
knaves  go  to 'loggerheads,  honest  men  get  their  own.  Time 
grows  under  us  like  grass.  York  and  Lancaster  may  pull  down 
each  other — and  what  is  left?  Why,  three  things  that  thrive 
in  all  weather — London,  Industry,  and  the  People  !  We  have 
fallen  on  a  rough  time.  Well,  what  says  the  proverb  ?  '  Boil 
stones  in  butter,  and  you  may  sup  the  broth.'  I  have  done." 

This  characteristic  harangue,  which  was  fortunate  enough 
to  accord  with  the  selfishness  of  each  one,  and  yet  give  the 
manly  excuse  of  sound  sense  and  wise  policy  to  all,  was  the 
mere  decisive  in  its  effect,  inasmuch  as  the  young  Alwyn,  from 
his  own  determined  courage,  and  his  avowed  distaste  to  the 
Lancaster  faction,  had  been  expected  to  favor  warlike  counsels. 
The  mayor  himself,  who  was  faithfully  and  personally  attached 


THE    LAST    OK    THE    15ARONS.  513 

to  Edward,  with  a  deep  sigh  gave  way  to  the  feeling  of  the 
assembly.  And  the  resolution  being  once  come  to,  Henry 
Lee  was  the  first  to  give  it  whatever  advantage  could  be  de- 
rived from  prompt  and  speedy  action. 

"Go  we  forth  at  once,"  said  he — "  go,  as  becomes  us,  in  our 
robes  of  state,  and  with  the  insignia  of  the  city.  Never  be  it 
said  that  the  guardians  of  the  cky  of  London  could  neither 
defend  with  spirit,  nor  make  terms  with  honor.  We  give 
entrance  to  Lord  Warwick.  Well,  then,  it  must  be  our  own 
free  act.  Come  !  Officers  of  our  court,  advance." 

"  Stay  a  bit — stay  a  bit,"  whispered  Stokton,  digging  sharp 
claws  into  Alwyn's  arm — "let  them  go  first :  a  word  with  you, 
cunning  Nick — a  word." 

Master  Stokton,  despite  the  tremor  of  his  nerves,  was  a  man 
of  such  wealth  and  substance,  that  Alwyn  might  well  take  the 
request,  thus  familiarly  made,  as  a  compliment  not  to  be  received 
discourteously  ;  moreover,  he  had  his  own  reasons  for  hanging 
back  from  a  procession  which  his  rank  in  the  city  did  not  re- 
quire him  to  join. 

While,  therefore,  the  mayor  and  the  other  dignitaries  left  the 
hall,  with  as  much  state  and  order  as  if  not  going  to  meet  an 
invading  army,  but  to  join  a  holiday  festival,  Nicholas  and 
Stokton  lingered  behind. 

"  Master  Alwyn,"  said  Stokton  then,  with  a  sly  wink  of  his 
eye,  "  you  have  this  day  done  yourself  great  credit  ;  you  will 
rise — I  have  my  eye  on  you  !  I  have  a  daughter — I  have  a 
daughter  !  Aha  !  a  lad  like  you  may  come  to  great  things  !  " 

"  I  am  much  bounden  to  you,  Master  Stokton,"  returned 
Alwyn,  somewhat  abstractedly  :  "  but  what's  your  will  ?  " 

"My  will ! — hum,  I  say,  Nicholas,  what's  your  advice  ? 
Quite  right  not  to  go  to  blows.  Odds  costards  !  that  mayor  is 
a  very  tiger !  But  don't  you  think  it  would  be  wiser  not  to 
join  this  procession  ?  Edward  IV.,  an'  he  ever  come  back,  has 
a  long  memory.  He  deals  at  my  ware,  too — a  good  customer 
at  a  mercer's  ;  and,  Lord  !  how  much  money  he  owes  the 
city  ! — hum — I  would  not  seem  ungrateful." 

"But,  if  you  go  not  out  with  the  rest,  there  be  other  mercers 
who  will  have  King  Henry 's  countenance  and  favor  ;  and  it  is 
easy  to  see  that  a  new  court  will  make  vast  consumption  in 
mercery." 

Master  Stokton  looked  puzzled. 

"  That  were  a  hugeous  pity,  good  Nicholas  ;  and,  certes, 
there  is  Wat  Smith  in  Eastgate,  who  would  cheat  that  good 
King  Henry,  poor  man  !  which  were  a  shame  to  the  city  ;  but. 


514  '1'UK    LAST    OK    T1IK    BARONS. 

on  the  other  hand,  the  Yorkists  mostly  pay  on  the  nail  (except 
King  Edward,  God  save  him  !),  and  the  Lancastrians  are  as 
poor  as  mice.  Moreover,  King  Henry  is  a  meek  man,  and 
does  not  avenge  ;  King  Edward  a  hot  and  a  stern  man,  and  may 
call  it  treason  to  go  with  the  Red  Rose  !  I  wish  I  knew  how  to  de- 
cide !  I  have  a  daughter — an  only  daughter — a  buxom  lass,  and 
well  dowered.  I  would  I  had  a  sharp  son-in-law  to  avise  me  !  " 

"  Master  Stokton,  in  one  word,  then  :  He  never  goes  far 
wrong  who  can  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the  hounds. 
Good-day  to  you,  I  have  business  elsewhere." 

So  saying,  Nicholas  rather  hastily  shook  off  the  mercer's 
quivering  fingers,  and  hastened  out  of  the  hall. 

"  Verily,"  murmured  the  disconsolate  Stokton,  "  run  with 
the  hare,  quotha ! — that  is,  go  with  King  Edward  ;  but  hunt 
with  the  hounds — that  is,  go  with  King  Henry.  Odds  cos- 
tards !  it's  not  so  easily  done  by  a  plain  man,  not  bred  in  the 
north.  I'd  best  go — home,  and  do  nothing!  " 

With  that,  musing  and  bewildered,  the  poor  man  sneaked 
out,  and  was  soon  lost  amidst  the  murmuring,  gathering,  and 
swaying  crowds,  many  amongst  which  were  as  much  perplexed 
as  himself. 

In  the  mean  while,  with  his  cloak  muffled  carefully  round  his 
face,  and  with  a  long,  stealthy,  gliding  stride,  Alvvyn  made  his 
way  through  the  streets,  gained  the  river,  entered  a  boat  in  wait- 
ing for  him,  and  arrived  at  last  at  the  palace  of  the  Tower. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  TRIUMPHAL  ENTRY  OF  THE  EARL — THE  ROYAL  CAPTIVE  IN 
THE  TOWER — THE  MEETING  BETWEEN  KING-MAKER  AND  KING. 

ALL  in  the  chambers  of  the  metropolitan  fortress  exhibited 
the  greatest  confusion  and  dismay.  The  sentinels,  it  is  true, 
were  still  at  their  posts,  men-at-arms  at  the  outworks,  the  bom- 
bards were  loaded,  the  flag  of  Edward  IV.  still  waved  aloft 
from  the  battlements  ;  but  the  officers  of  the  fortress  and  the 
captains  of  its  soldiery  were,  some  assembled  in  the  old  hall, 
pale  with  fear,  and  wrangling  with  each  other  ;  some  had  fled, 
none  knew  whither  ;  some  had  gone  avowedly  and  openly  to 
join  the  invading  army. 

Through  this  tumultuous  and  feeble  force,  Nicholas  Alwyn 
was  conducted  by  a  single  faithful  servitor  of  the  Queen's  (by 
whom  he  was  expected)  ;  and  one  glance  of  his  quick  eye,  as 
he  passed  along,  convinced  him  of  the  justice  of  his  counsels. 


THE    LAST    OK    THE    BAH-ONS.  515 

He  arrived  at  last,  by  a  long  and  winding  stair,  at  one  of  the 
loftiest  chambers,  in  one  of  the  loftiest  towers,  usually  appro- 
priated to  the  subordinate  officers  of  the  household. 

And  there,  standing  by  the  open  casement,  commanding 
some  extended  view  of  the  noisy  and  crowded  scene  beyond, 
both  on  stream  and  land,  he  saw  the  Queen  of  the  fugitive 
monarch.  By  her  side  was  the  Lady  Scrope,  her  most  familial 
friend  and  confidant  ;  her  three  infant  children,  Elizabeth, 
Mary,  and  Cecily,  grouped  round  her  knees,  playing  with  each 
other,  and  unconscious  of  the  terrors  of  the  times  ;  and  apart 
from  the  rest  stood  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  conferring  eagerly 
with  Friar  Bungey,  whom  she  had  summoned  in  haste,  to  know 
if  his  art  could  not  yet  prevail  over  enemies  merely  mortal. 

The  servitor  announced  Alwyn,  and  retired  ;  the  Queen 
turned  :  "  What  news,  Master  Alwyn  ?  Quick  !  What  tidings 
from  the  lord  mayor  ?" 

"  Gracious  my  Queen  and  Lady,"  said  Alwyn,  falling  on  his 
knees,  "  you  have  but  one  course  to  pursue.  Below  yon  case- 
ment lies  your  barge — to  the  right,  see  the  round  gray  tower 
of  Westminster  Sanctuary  ;  you  have  time  yet,  and  but  time  !  " 

The  old  Duchess  of  Bedford  turned  her  sharp,  bright,  gray 
eyes  from  the  pale  and  trembling  friar,  to  the  goldsmith,  but 
was  silent.  The  Queen  stood  aghast !  "  Mean  you,"  she  fal- 
tered at  last,  "  that  the  city  of  London  forsakes  the  King  ? 
Shame  on  the  cravens  !  " 

"  Not  cravens,  my  Lady  and  Queen,"  said  Alwyn,  rising. 
"  He  must  have  iron  nails  that  scratches  a  bear — and  the  white 
bear  above  all.  The  King  has  fled,  the  barons  have  fled,  the 
soldiers  have  fled,  the  captains  have  fled — the  citizens  of  Lon- 
don alone  fly  not ;  but  there  is  nothing,  save  life  and  property, 
left  to  guard." 

"  Is  this  thy  boasted  influence  with  the  commons,  and  youths 
of  the  city?  " 

"  My  humble  influence,  may  it  please  your  Grace  (I  say  it 
now  openly,  and  I  will  say  it  a  year  hence,  when  King  Edward 
will  hold  his  court  in  these  halls  once  again) — my  influence, 
such  as  it  is,  has  been  used  to  save  lives,  which  resistance 
would  waste  in  vain.  Alack,  alack  !  '  No  gaping  against  an 
oven,'  gracious  lady  !  Your  barge  is  below.  Again  I  say, 
there  is  yet  time — when  the  bell  tolls  the  next  hour,  that  time 
will  be  past !  " 

"Then  Jesu  defend  these  children  !  "  said  Elizabeth, bending 
over  her  infants,  and  weeping  bitterly  ;  "  I  will  go  !  " 

"  Hold  !  "    said  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  "  men  desert  us — • 


516  THE  LAST  OF  THE  UAKONb. 

but  do  the  spirits  also  forsake  ?  Speak,  friar  !  canst  thou  yet 
do  aught  for  us?  And  if  not,  thinkest  thou  it  is  the  right  hour 
to  yield  and  fly  ?  " 

"  Daughter,"  said  the  friar,  whose  terror  might  have  moved 
pity,  "as  I  said  before,  thank  yourself.  This  Warner,  this — in 
short,  the  lesser  magican,  hath  been  aided  and  cockered  to 
countervail  the  greater,  as  I  forewarned.  Fly  !  run  !  fly  ! 
Verily  and  indeed,  it  is  the  properest  of  all  times  to  save  our- 
selves ;  and  the  stars  and  the  book,  and  my  familiar,  all  call 
out,  'Off  and  away  !" 

"'Fore  heaven  !  "  exclaimed  Alwyn,  who  had  hitherto  been 
dumb  with  astonishment  at  this  singular  interlude,  "sith  he 
who  hath  shipped  the  devil  must  make  the  best  of  him,  thou 
art  for  once  an  honest  man,  and  a  wise  counsellor.  Hark  !  the 
second  gun  !  The  Earl  is  at  the  gates  of  the  city  !  " 

The  Queen  lingered  no  longer  ;  she  caught  her  youngest 
child  in  her  arms  ;  the  Lady  Scrope  followed  with  the  two 
others.  "  Come,  follow  quick,  Master  Alwyn,"  said  the  Duchess, 
who,  now  that  she  was  compelled  to  abandon  the  world  of  pre- 
diction and  soothsaying,  became  thoroughly  the  sagacious,  plot- 
ting, ready  woman  of  this  life.  "  Come,  your  face  and  name 
will  be  of  service  to  us,  an*  we  meet  with  obstruction." 

Before  Alwyn  could  reply,  the  door  was  thrown  abruptly 
open,  and  several  of  the  officers  of  the  household  rushed  pele- 
m£le  into  the  royal  presence. 

"  Gracious  Queen  !  "  cried  many  voices  at  once,  each  with 
a  different  sentence  of  fear  and  warning,  "  Fly  !  We  cannot 
depend  on  the  soldiers — the  populace  are  up — they  shout  for 
King  Henry — Dr.  Godard  is  preaching  against  you  at  St.  Paul's 
Cross — Sir  Geoffrey  Gates  has  come  out  cJ  the  sanctuary,  and 
with  him  all  the  miscreants  and  outlaws — the  mayor  is  now 
with  the  rebels  !  Fly  ! — the  sanctuary — the  sanctuary  !  " 

"And  who  amongst  you  is  of  highest  rank?"  asked  the 
Duchess  calmly :  for  Elizabeth,  completely  overwhelmed, 
seemed  incapable  of  speech  or  movement. 

"  I,  Giles  de  Malvoisin,  knight  banneret,"  said  an  old  warrior, 
armed  cap-&-pie,  who  had  fought  in  France  under  the  hero 
Talbot. 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  the  Duchess,  with  majesty,  "  to  your  hands 
I  confide  the  eldest  daughter  of  your  King.  Lead  on  ! — we 
follow  you.  Elizabeth,  lean  on  me." 

With  this,  supporting  Elizabeth,  and  leading  her  second 
grandchild,  the  Duchess  left  the  chamber. 

friar  fpjlowed  amidst  the  crowd,  for  well  he  knew  that  if 


THE   LAST   OP    THE   BARONS.  517 

the  soldiers  of  Warwick  once  caught  hold  of  him,  he  had  fared 
about  as  happily  as  the  fox  amidst  the  dogs  ;  and  Ahvyn,  for- 
gotten in  the  general  confusion,  hastened  to  Adam's  chamber. 

The  old  man,  blessing  any  cause  that  induced  his  patroness 
to  dispense  with  his  astrological  labors,  and  restored  him  to  the 
care  of  his  Eureka,  was  calmly  and  quietly  employed  in  re- 
pairing the  mischief  effected  by  the  bungling  friar.  And  Sibyll, 
who  at  the  first  alarm  had  flown  to  his  retreat,  joyfully  hailed 
the  entrance  of  the  friendly  goldsmith. 

Alwyn  was,  indeed,  perplexed  what  to  advise,  for  the  princi- 
pal sanctuary  would,  no  doubt,  be  crowded  by  ruffians  of  the 
worst  character  :  and  the  better  lodgments  which  that  place,  a 
little  town  in  itself,*  contained,  be  already  pre-occupied  by 
the  Yorkists  of  rank  ;  and  the  smaller  sanctuaries  were  still 
more  liable  to  the  same  objection.  Moreover,  if  Adam  should 
be  recognized  by  any  of  the  rabble  that  would  meet  them  by 
the  way,  his  fate,  by  the  summary  malice  of  a  mob,  was  certain. 
After  all,  the  Tower  would  be  free  from  the  populace  :  and  as 
soon  as,  by  a  few  rapid  questions,  Alwyn  learned  from  Sibyll 
that  she  had  reason  to  hope  her  father  would  find  protection 
with  Lord  Warwick,  and  called  to  mind  that  Marmaduke 
Nevile  was  necessarily  in  the  Earl's  train,  he  advised  them  to 
remain  quiet  and  concealed  in  their  apartments,  and  promised 
to  see  and  provide  for  them  the  moment  the  Tower  was  yielded 
up  to  the  new  government. 

The  counsel  suited  both  Sibyll  and  Warner.  Indeed,  the 
philosopher  could  not  very  easily  have  been  induced  to  sepa- 
rate himself  again  from  the  beloved  Eureka  ;  and  Sibyll  was 
more  occupied  at  that  hour  with  thoughts  and  prayers  for  the 
beloved  Hastings — afar — a  wanderer  and  an  exile — than  with 
the  turbulent  events  amidst  which  her  lot  was  cast. 

In  the  storms  of  a  revolution  which  convulsed  a  kingdom 
and  hurled  to  the  dust  a  throne,  Love  saw  but  a  single  object, 
Science  but  its  tranquil  toil.  Beyond  the  realm  of  men  lies 
ever  with  its  joy  and  sorrow,  its  vicissitude  and  change,  the 
domain  of  the  human  heart.  In  the  revolution,  the  toy  of  the 
scholar  was  restored  to  him ;  in  the  revolution,  the  maiden 
mourned  her  lover.  In  the  movement  of  the  mass,  each  unit 
hath  its  separate  passion.  The  blast  that  rocks  the  tree  shakes 
a  different  world  in  every  leaf ! 

*  The  Sanctuary  of  Westminster  was  fortified 


5lS  TIIK    LAST    OF    THE    KARONS. 

CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    TOWER    IN    COMMOTION. 

ON  quitting  the  Tower,  Alwyn  regained  the  boat,  and  took 
his  way  to  the  city  ;  and  here,  whatever  credit  that  worthy  and 
excellent  personage  may  lose  in  certain  eyes,  his  historian  is 
bound  to  confess  that  his  anxiety  for  Sibyll  did  not  entirely 
distract  his  attention  from  interest  or  ambition.  To  become 
the  head  of  his  class,  to  rise  to  the  first  honors  of  his  beloved 
city  of  London,  had  become  to  Nicholas  Alwyn  a  hope  and 
aspiration  which  made  as  much  a  part  of  his  being  as  glory  to 
a  warrior,  power  to  a  king,  an  Eureka  to  a  scholar  ;  and,  though 
more  mechanically  than  with  any  sordid  calculation  or  self- 
seeking,  Nicholas  Alwyn  repaired  to  his  Ware  in  the  Chepe. 
The  streets,  when  he  landed,  already  presented  a  different 
appearance  from  the  disorder  and  tumult  noticeable  when  he 
had  before  passed  them.  The  citizens  now  had  decided  what 
course  to  adopt ;  and  though  the  shops,  or  rather  booths,  were 
carefully  closed,  streamers  of  silk,  cloth  of  arras  and  gold,  were 
hung  from  the  upper  casements  ;  the  balconies  were  crowded 
with  holiday  gazers  ;  the  fickle  populace  (the  same  herd  that 
had  hooted  the  meek  Henry,  when  led  to  the  Tower)  were  now 
shouting.  "  A  Warwick  !  "  A  Clarence  !  "  and  pouring  throng 
after  throng,  to  ga«e  upon  the  army,  which,  with  the  mayor 
and  aldermen,  had  already  entered  the  city.  Having  seen  to 
the  security  of  his  costly  goods,  and  praised  his  apprentices 
duly  for  their  care  of  his  interests,  and  their  abstinence  from 
joining  the  crowd,  Nicholas  then  repaired  to  the  upper  story  of 
his  house,  and  set  forth  from  his  casements  and  balcony  the 
richest  stuffs  he  possessed.  However,  there  was  his  own 
shrewd,  sarcastic  smile  on  his  firm  lips,  as  he  said  to  his  appren- 
tices :  "  When  these  are  done  with,  lay  them  carefully  by 
against  Edward  of  York's  re-entry  !  " 

Meanwhile,  preceded  by  trumpets,  drums,  and  heralds,  the 
Earl  of  Warwick  and  his  royal  son-in-law  rode  into  the  shout- 
ing city.  Behind  came  the  litter  of  the  Duchess  of  Clarence, 
attended  by  the  Earl  of  Oxford,  Lord  Fitzhugh,  the  Lords 
Stanley  and  Shrewsbury,  Sir  Robert  de  Lytton,  and  a  princely 
cortege  of  knights,  squires,  and  nobles  ;  while,  file  upon  file, 
rank  upon  rank,  followed  the  long  march  of  the  unresisted 
armament. 

Warwick,  clad  in  complete  armor  of  Milan  steel  save  the  hel- 
met, which  was  borne  behind  him  by  his  squire,  mounted  on 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  519 

his  own  noble  Saladin,  preserved,  upon  a  countenance  so  well 
suited  to  command  the  admiration  of  a  populace,  the  same 
character  as  heretofore,  of  manly  majesty  and  lofty  frankness. 
But  to  a  nearer  and  more  searching  gaze  than  was  likely  to  be 
bent  upon  him  in  such  an  hour,  the  dark,  deep  traces  of  care, 
anxiety,  and  passion  might  have  been  detected  in  the  lines 
which  now  thickly  intersected  the  forehead,'  once  so  smooth 
and  furrowless  ;  and  his  kingly  eye,  not  looking,  as  of  old, 
right  forward  as  he  moved,  cast  unquiet,  searching  glances 
about  him  and  around,  as  he  bowed  his  bare  head  from  side  to 
side  of  the  welcoming  thousands. 

A  far  greater  change,  to  outward  appearance,  was  visible  in 
the  fair  young  face  of  the  Duke  of  Clarence.  His  complexion, 
usually  sanguine  and  blooming,  like  his  elder  brother's,  was 
now  little  less  pale  than  that  of  Richard.  A  sullen,  moody, 
discontented  expression,  which  not  all  the  heartiness  of  the 
greetings  he  received  could  dispel,  contrasted  forcibly  with  the 
good-humored,  laughing  recklessness,  which  had  once  drawn  a 
''  God  bless  him  !  "  from  all  on  whom  rested  his  light-blue, 
joyous  eye.  He  was  unarmed,  save  by  a  corslet  richly  embossed 
with  gold.  His  short  manteline  of  crimson  velvet,  his  hosen 
of  white  cloth  laced  with  gold,  and  his  low  horsemen's  boots  of 
Spanish  leather  curiously  carved  and  broidered,  with  long 
golden  spurs,  his  plumed  and  jewelled  cap,  his  white  charger 
with  housings  enriched  with  pearls  and  blazing  with  cloth  of 
gold,  his  broad  collar  of  precious  stones,  with  the  order  of  St. 
George  ;  his  general's  truncheon  raised  aloft,  and  his  Plan- 
tagenet  banner  borne  by  the  herald  over  his  royal  head,  caught 
the  eyes  of  the  crowd,  only  the  more  to  rivet  them  on  an  aspect 
ill  fitting  the  triumph  of  a  bloodless  victory.  At  his  left  hand, 
where  the  breadth  of  the  streets  permitted,  rode  Henry  Lee, 
the  mayor,  uttering  no  word  unless  appealed  to,  and  then 
answering  but  with  chilling  reverence  and  dry  monosyllables. 

A  narrow  winding  in  the  streets,  which  left  Warwick  and 
Clarence  alone  side  by  side,  gave  the  former  the  opportunity 
he  had  desired. 

"  How,  prince  and  son,"  he  said  in  a  hollow  whisper,  "is  it 
with  this  brow  of  care  that  thou  saddenest  our  conquest,  ai.d 
enterest  the  capital  we  gain  without  a  blow  ?  " 

"By  St.  George  !  "  answered  Clarence  sullenly,  nnd  in  the 
same  tone  ;  "  thinkest  thou  it  chafes  not  the  son  ol  Richard  of 
York,  after  such  toils  and  bloodshed,  to  ministrr  to  the  de- 
thronement of  his  kin  and  the  restoration  of  the  foe  of  his 
race  ? " 


52O  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"  Thou  shouldst  have  thought  of  that  before,"  returned  War- 
wick, but  with  sadness  and  pity  in  the  reproach. 

"Ay,  before  Edward  of  Lancaster  was  made  my  lord  and 
brother,"  retorted  Clarence  bitterly. 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  Earl,  "  and  calm  thy  brow.  Not  thus 
didst  thou  speak  at  Amboise  ;  either  thou  wert  then  less  frank, 
or  more  generous.  But  regrets  are  vain  :  we  have  raised  the 
whirlwind,  and  must  rule  it." 

And  with  that,  in  the  action  of  a  man  who  would  escape  his 
own  thoughts,  Warwick  made  his  black  steed  demivolte  ;  and 
the  crowd  shouted  again  the  louder,  at  the  Earl's  gallant  horse- 
manship, and  Clarence's  dazzling  collar  of  jewels. 

While  thus  the  procession  of  the  victors,  the  nominal  object 
of  all  this  mighty  and  sudden  revolution — of  this  stir  and 
uproar — of  these  shining  arms  and  flaunting  banners — of  this 
heaven  or  hell  in  the  deep  passions  of  men — still  remained  in  his 
prison  chamber  of  the  Tower,  a  true  type  of  the  thing  factions 
contend  for  ;  absent,  insignificant,  unheeded,  and,  save  by  a  few 
of  the  leaders  and  fanatical  priests,  absolutely  forgotten  ! 

To  this  solitary  chamber  we  are  now  transported  ;  yet  soli- 
tary is  a  word  of  doubtful  propriety — for  though  the  royal  cap- 
tive was  alone,  so  far  as  the  human  species  make  up  a  man's 
companionship  and  solace — though  the  faithful  gentlemen,  Man- 
ning, Bedle,  and  Allerton,  had,  on  the  news  of  Warwick's  land- 
ing, been  thrust  from  his  chamber,  and  were  now  in  the  ranks 
of  his  new  and  strange  defenders,  yet  power  and  jealousy 
had  not  left  his  captivity  all  forsaken.  There  was  still  the 
starling  in  its  cage,  and  the  fat,  asthmatic  spaniel  still  wagged 
its  tail  at  the  sound  of  its  master's  voice,  or  the  rustle  of  his 
long  gown.  And  still  from  the  ivory  crucifix  gleamed  the  sad 
and  holy  face  of  the  God— present  alway — and  who,  by  faith 
and  patience,  linketh  evermore  grief  to  joy,  but  earth  to  heaven. 

The  august  prisoner  had  not  been  so  utterly  cut  off  from 
all  knowledge  of  the  outer  life  as  to  be  ignorant  of  some  un- 
wonted and  important  stir  in  the  fortress  and  the  city.  The 
squire  who  had  brought  him  his  morning  meal  had  been  so 
agitated  as  to  excite  the  captive's  attention,  and  had  then 
owned  that  the  Earl  of  Warwick  had  proclaimed  Henry  king, 
and  was  on  his  march  to  London.  But  neither  the  squire  nor 
any  of  the  officers  of  the  Tower  dared  release  the  illustrious 
captive,  nor  even  remove  him  as  yet  to  the  state  apartments 
vacated  by  Elizabeth.  They  knew  not  what  might  be  the 
pleasure  of  the  stout  Earl  or  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  and  feared 
over-officiousness  might  be  their  worst  crime.  But  naturally 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  52! 

imagining  that  Henry's  first  command,  at  the  new  position  of 
things,  might  be  for  liberty,  and  perplexed  whether  to  yield  or 
refuse,  they  absented  themselves  from  his  summons,  and  left 
the  whole  Tower  in  which  he  was  placed  actually  deserted. 

From  his  casement  the  King  could  see,  however,  the  com- 
motion, and  the  crowds  upon  the  wharf  and  river,  with  the 
gleam  of  arms  and  banners  ;  and  hear  the  sounds  of  "  A  War- 
wick !"  "A  Clarence!"  "Long  live  good  Henry  VI.!" 
A  strange  combination  of  names  which  disturbed  and  amazed 
him  much  !  But  by  degrees,  the  unwonted  excitement  of  per- 
plexity and  surprise  settled  back  into  the  calm  serenity  of  his 
most  gentle  mind  and  temper.  That  trust  in  an  all-directing 
Providence,  to  which  he  had  schooled  himself,  had  (if  we  may 
so  say  with  reverence)  driven  his  beautiful  soul  into  the  oppo- 
site error,  so  fatal  to  the  affairs  of  life ;  the  error  that  deadens 
and  benumbs  the  energy  of  free  will  and  the  noble  alertness  of 
active  duty.  Why  strain  and  strive  for  the  things  of  this 
world  ?  God  would  order  all  for  the  best.  Alas,  God  hath 
placed  us  in  this  world,  each,  from  king  to  peasant,  with  nerves, 
and  hearts,  and  blood,  and  passions,  to  struggle  with  our  kind  ; 
and,  no  matter  how  heavenly  the  goal,  to  labor  with  the  million 
in  the  race ! 

"  Forsooth,"  murmured  the  King,  as,  his  hands  clasped  be- 
hind him,  he  paced  slowly  to  and  fro  the  floor,  "  this  ill  world 
seemeth  but  a  feather,  blown  about  by  the  winds,  and  never  to 
be  at  rest.  Hark  !  Warwick  and  King  Henry — the  lion  and 
the  lamb  !  Alack,  and  we  are  fallen  on  no  Paradise,  where 
such  union  were  not  a  miracle  !  Foolish  bird  !  "  and  with  a 
pitying  smile  upon  that  face  whose  holy  sweetness  might  have 
disarmed  a  fiend,  he  paused  before  the  cage  and  contemplated 
his  fellow-captive — "Foolish  bird,  the  uneasiness  and  turmoil 
without  have  reached  even  to  thee.  Thou  beatest  thy  wings 
against  the  wires ;  thou  turnest  thy  bright  eyes  to  mine  rest- 
lessly. Why?  Pantest  thou  to  be  free,  silly  one,  that  the 
hawk  may  swoop  on  its  defenceless  prey  ?  Better,  perhaps, 
the  cage  for  thee,  and  the  prison  for  thy  master.  Well — out  if 
thou  wilt !  Here  at  least  thou  art  safe  !  "  and  opening  the 
cage  the  starling  flew  to  his  bosom,  and  nestled  there,  with  its 
small,  clear  voice  mimicking  the  human  sound. 

"  Poor  Henry — poor  Henry  !     Wicked  men — poor  Henry." 

The  King  bowed  his  meek  head  over  his  favorite,  and  the 
fat  spaniel,  jealous  of  the  monopolized  caress,  came  waddling 
towards  its  master,  with  a  fond  whine,  and  looked  up  at  him 
with  eyes  that  expressed  more  of  faith  and  love  than  Edward 


522  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

of  York,  the  ever  wooing  and  ever  wooed,  had  read  in  the  gaze 
of  woman. 

With  those  companions,  and  with  thoughts  growing  more 
and  more  composed  and  r;ipt  from  all  that  had  roused  and 
vexed  his  interest  in  the  forenoon,  Henry  remained  till  the 
hour  had  long  passed  for  his  evening  meal.  Surprised  at  last 
by  a  negligence  which  (to  do  his  gaolers  justice)  had  never 
before  occurred,  and  finding  no  response  to  his  hand-bell — no 
attendant  in  the  ante-room — the  outer  doors  locked  as  usual — 
but  the  sentinel's  tread  in  the  court  below  hushed  and  still,  a 
cold  thrill  for  a  moment  shot  through  his  blood.  "  Was  he 
left  for  hunger  to  do  its  silent  work  !  "  Slowly  he  bent  his 
way  from  the  outer  rooms  back  to  his  chamber  ;  and,  as  he 
passed  the  casement  again  he  heard,  though  far  in  the  distance, 
through  the  dim  air  of  the  deepening  twilight,  the  cry  of 
"Long  live  King  Henry  !  " 

This  devotion  without,  this  neglect  within,  was  a  wondrous 
contrast !  Meanwhile  the  spaniel,  with  that  instinct  of  fidelity 
which  divines  the  wants  of  the  master,  had  moved,  snuffling  and 
smelling,  round  and  round  the  chambers,  till  it  stopped  and 
scratched  at  a  cupboard  in  the  ante-room,  and  then  with  a  joyful 
bark  flew  back  to  the  King,  and  taking  the  hem  of  his  gown  be- 
tween its  teeth,  led  him  towards  the  spot  it  had  discovered  ;  and 
there,  in  truth,  a  few  of  those  small  cakes,  usually  served  up 
for  the  night's  livery,  had  been  carelessly  left.  They  sufficed 
for  the  day's  food,  and  the  King,  the  dog,  and  the  starling, 
shared  them  peacefully  together.  This  done,  Henry  carefully 
replaced  his  bird  in  its  cage,  bade  the  dog  creep  to  the  hearth 
and  lie  still  ;  passed  on  to  his  little  oratory,  with  the  relics  of 
cross  and  saint  strewed  around  the  solemn  image,  and  in 
prayer  forgot  the  world !  Meanwhile  darkness  set  in  :  the 
streets  had  grown  deserted,  save  where  in  some  nooks  and  by- 
lanes  gathered  groups  of  the  soldiery  ;  but  for  the  most  part, 
the  discipline  in  which  Warwick  held  his  army  had  dismissed 
those  stern  loiterers  to  the  various  quarters  provided  for  them, 
and  little  remained  to  remind  the  peaceful  citizens  that  a 
throne  had  been  uprooted,  and  a  revolution  consummated,  that 
exentful  day.  It  was  at  this  time  that  a  tall  man,  closely 
wrapped  in  his  large  horseman's  cloak,  passed  alone  through 
the  streets,  and  gained  the  Tovver.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice 
by  the  great  gate,  the  sentinel  started  in  alarm  ;  a  few  moments 
more,  and  all  left  to  guard  the  fortress  were  gathered  round 
him.  From  these  he  singled  out  one  of  the  squires  who 
usually  attended  Henry,  and  bade  him  light  his  steps  to  the 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  523 

King's  chamber.  As  in  that  chamber  Henry  rose  from  his 
knees,  he  saw  the  broad  red  light  of  a  torch  flickering  under 
the  chinks  of  the  threshold  ;  he  heard  the  slow  tread  of  ap- 
proaching footsteps  ;  the  spaniel  uttered  a  low  growl,  its  eyes 
sparkling  ;  the  door  opened,  and  the  torch  borne  behind  by 
the  squire,  and  raised  aloft  so  that  its  glare  threw  a  broad 
light  over  the  whole  chamber,  brought  into  full  view  the  dark 
and  haughty  countenance  of  the  Earl  of  Warwick. 

The  squire,  at  a  gesture  from  the  Earl,  lighted  the  sconces 
on  the  wall,  the  tapers  on  the  table,  and  quickly  vanished. 
King-maker  and  King  were  alone  !  At  the  first  sight  of  War- 
wick, Henry  had  turned  pale,  and  receded  a  few  paces,  with 
one  hand  uplifted  in  adjuration  or  command,  while  with  the 
other  he  veiled  his  eyes — whether  that  this  startled  movement 
came  from  the  weakness  of  bodily  nerves,  much  shattered  by 
sickness  and  confinement,  or  from  the  sudden  emotions  called 
forth  by  the  aspect  of  one  who  had  wrought  him  calamities  so 
dire.  But  the  craven's  terror  in  the  presence  of  a  living  foe 
was,  with  all  his  meekness,  all  his  holy  abhorrence  of  wrath 
and  warfare,  as  unknown  to  that  royal  heart  as  to  the  high 
blood  of  his  Hero-sire.  And,  so,  after  a  brief  pause,  and  a 
thought  that  took  the  shape  of  prayer,  not  for  safety  from 
peril,  but  for  grace  to  forgive  the  past,  Henry  VI.  advanced 
to  Warwick,  who  still  stood  dumb  by  the  threshold,  combating 
with  his  own  mingled  and  turbulent  emotions  of  pride  and 
shame,  and  said,  in  a  voice  majestic  even  from  its  very  mild- 
ness." 

"  What  tale  of  new  woe  and  evil  hath  the  Earl  of  Salisbury 
and  Warwick  come  to  announce  to  the  poor  captive  who  was 
once  a  king  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me  !  Forgiveness,  Henry,  my  lord — forgiveness  !  " 
exclaimed  Warwick,  falling  on  his  knee.  The  meek  reproach, 
the  touching  words,  the  mien  and  visage  altered,  since  last 
beheld,  from  manhood  into'  age,  the  gray  hairs  and  bended 
form  of  the  King,  went  at  once  to  that  proud  heart  ;  and  as 
the  Earl  bent  over  the  wan,  thin  hand,  resigned  to  his  lips,  a 
tear  upon  its  surface  outsparkled  all  the  jewels  that  it  wore. 

"Yet  no,"  continued  the  Earl  (impatient,  as  proud  men  are, 
to  hurry  from  repentance  to  atonement,  for  the  one  is  of  humili- 
ation and  the  other  of  pride) — "  yet  no,  my  liege,  not  now  do  I 
crave  your  pardon.  No  ;  but  when  begirt,  in  the  halls  of  thine 
ancestors,  with  the  peers  of  England,  the  victorious  banner  of 
St.  George  waving  above  the  throne  which  thy  servant  hath 
rebuilt — then,  when  the  trumpets  are  sounding  tny  rights  with- 


524  THE  LAST  OF  THK  BARONS. 

out  the  answer  of  a  foe — then,  when  from  shore  to  shore  of  fair 
England  the  shout  of  thy  people  echoes  to  the  vault  of  heaven — 
then  will  Warwick  kneel  again  to  King  Henry,  and  sue  for  the 
pardon  he  hath  not  ignobly  won  !  " 

"  Alack,  sir,"  said  the  King,  with  accents  of  mournful,  yet 
half-reproving  kindness,  "  it  was  not  amidst  trumps  and  ban- 
ners that  the  Son  of  God  set  mankind  the  exemplar  and  pat- 
tern of  charity  to  foes.  When  thy  hand  struck  the  spurs  from 
my  heel ;  when  thou  didst  parade  me  through  the  hooting  crowd 
to  this  solitary  cell,  then,  Warwick,  I  forgave  thee,  and  prayed 
to  heaven  for  pardon  for  thee,  if  thou  didst  wrong  me— for 
myself,  if  a  king's  fault  had  deserved  a  subject's  harshness. 
Rise,  Sir  Earl ;  our  God  is  a  jealous  God,  and  the  attitude  of 
worship  is  for  Him  alone." 

Warwick  rose  from  his  knee  ;  and  the  King,  perceiving  and 
compassionating  the  struggle  which  shook  the  strong  man's 
breast,  laid  his  hand  on  the  Earl's  shoulder,  and  said  :  "  Peace 
be  with  thee  !  Thou  hast  done  me  no  real  harm.  I  have  been 
as  happy  in  these  walls  as  in  the  green  parks  of  Windsor  ;  hap- 
pier than  in  the  halls  of  state,  or  in  the  midst  of  wrangling 
armies.  What  tidings  now  ?  " 

"  My  liege,  is  it  possible  that  you  know  not  that  Edward  is  a 
fugitive  and  a  beggar,  and  that  Heaven  hath  permitted  me  to 
avenge  at  once  your  injuries  and  my  own?  This  day,  without 
a  blow,  I  have  regained  your  city  of  London  ;  its  streets  are 
manned  by  my  army.  From  the  council  of  peers  and  war- 
riors and  prelates,  assembled  at  my  house,  I  have  stolen  hither 
alone  and  in  secret,  that  I  might  be  the  first  to  hail  your 
Grace's  restoration  to  the  throne  of  Henry  V." 

The  King's  face  so  little  changed  at  this  intelligence,  that  its 
calm  sadness  almost  enraged  the  impetuous  Warwick,  and  with 
difficulty  he  restrained  from  giving  utterance  to  the  thought  : 
"  He  is  not  worthy  of  a  throne  who  cares  so  little  to  possess  it." 

"  Well-a-day  !  "  said  Henry,  sighing,  "  Heaven,  then,  hath 
sore  trials  yet  in  store  for  mine  old  age  !  Tray  !  Tray  !  "  and 
stooping,  he  gently  patted  his  dog,  who  kept  watch  at  his  feet, 
still  glaring  suspiciously  at  Warwick  ;  "  We  are  both  too  old 
for  the  chase  now  !  Will  you  be  seated,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Trust  me,"  said  the  Earl,  as  he  obeyed  the  command,  hav- 
ing first  set  chair  and  footstool  for  the  King,  who  listened  to 
him  with  downcast  eyes  and  his  head  drooping  on  his  bosom — 
"trust  me,  your  later  days,  my  liege,  will  be  free  from  the 
storms  of  your  youth.  All  chance  of  Edward's  hostility  is 
expired,  Your  alliance,  though  I  seem  boastful  so  to  speak — 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  ($2$ 

your  alliance  with  one  in  whom  the  people  can  confide  for 
some  skill  in  war,  and  some  more  profound  experience  of 
the  habits  and  tempers  of  your  subjects  than  your  former 
councillors  could  possess,  will  leave  your  honored  leisure  free 
for  the  holy  meditations  it  affects ;  and  your  glory,  as  your 
safety,shall  be  the  care  of  men  who  can  awe  this  rebellious  world." 

"  Alliance  ! "  said  the  King,  who  had  caught  but  that  one 
word.  "  Of  what  speakest  thou,  Sir  Earl  ?  " 

"These  missives  will  explain  all, my  liege.  This  letter  from 
my  lady  the  Queen  Margeret,  and  this  from  your  gracious  son, 
the  Prince  of  Wales." 

"Edward  !  -my  Edward  !  "  exclaimed  the  King,  with  a  fa- 
ther's burst  of  emotion.  "  Thou  hast  seen  him,  then  ?  Bears 
he  his  health  well  ?  Is  he  of  cheer  and  heart  ?  " 

"He  is  strong  and  fair,  and  full  of  promise,  and  brave  as  his 
grandsire's  sword." 

"  And  knows  he — knows  he  well,  that  we  all  are  the  potter's 
clay  in  the  hands  of  God  ?  " 

"  My  liege,"  said  Warwick,  embarrassed,  "  he  has  as  much 
devotion  as  befits  a  Christian  knight  and  a  goodly  prince." 

"  Ah  !  "  sighed  the  King,  "  ye  men  of  arms  have  strange 
thoughts  on  these  matters  ";  and  cutting  the  silk  of  the  letters, 
he  turned  from  the  warrior.  Shading  his  face  with  his  hand, 
the  Earl  darted  his  keen  glance  on  the  features  of  the  King, 
as,  drawing  near  to  the  table,  the  latter  read  the  communica- 
tions which  announced  his  new  connection  with  his  ancient  foe. 

But  Henry  was  at  first  so  affected  by  the  sight  of  Margaret's 
well-known  hand,  that  he  thrice  put  down  the  letter,  and  wiped 
the  moisture  from  his  eyes. 

"  My  poor  Margaret,  how  thou  hast  suffered  !  "  he  murmured  ; 
"  these  very  characters  are  less  firm  and  bold  than  they  were. 
Well — well  !  "  and  at  last  he  betook  himself  resolutely  to  the 
task.  Once  or  twice  his  countenance  changed,  and  he  uttered 
an  exclamation  of  surprise.  But  the  proposition  of  a  marriage 
between  Prince  Edward  and  the  Lady  Anne  did  not  revolt  his 
forgivingmind,  as  it  had  the  haughty  and  stern  temper  of  his  con- 
sort. And  when  he  had  concluded  his  son's  epistle,  full  of  the 
ardor  of  his  love  and  the  spirit  of  his  youth,  the  King  passed 
his  left  hand  over  his  brow,  and  then  extending  his  right  to 
Warwick,  said,  in  accents  which  trembled  with  emotion  :  "  Serve 
my  son — since  he  is  thine,  too — give  peace  to  this  distracted 
kingdom — repair  my  errors — press  not  hard  upon  those  who 
contend  against  us-,  and  Jesu  and  his  saints  will  bless  this  bond  !  " 

The   Earl's   object,   perhaps,    in    seeking    a    meeting   with 


526  THE   LAST   OF   THE   KARONS. 

Henry,  so  private  and  unwitnessed,  had  been,  that  none,  not 
even  his  brother,  might  hearken  to  the  reproaches  he  antici- 
pated to  receive,  or  say  hereafter  that  he  heard  Warwick, 
returned  as  victor  and  avenger  to  his  native  land,  descend,  in 
the  hour  of  triumph,  to  extenuation  and  excuse.  So  affronted, 
imperilled,  or,  to  use  his  own  strong  word,  "  so  despaired"  had 
he  been  in  the  former  rule  of  Henry,  that  his  intellect,  which, 
however  vigorous  in  his  calmer  moods,  was  liable  to  be 
obscured  and  dulled  by  his  passions,  had  half-confounded  the 
gentle  King  with  his  ferocious  wife  and  stem  councillors,  and 
he  had  thought  he  never  could  have  humbled  himself  to  the 
Miin,  even  so  far  as  knighthood's  submission  to  Margaret's  sex 
had  allowed  him  to  the  woman.  But  the  sweetness  of  Henry's 
manner,  and  disposition  ;  the  saint-like  dignity  which  he  had 
manifested  throughout  this  painful  interview,  and  the  touching 
grace  and  trustful  generosity  of  his  last  words — words  which 
consummated  the  Earl's  large  projects  of  ambition  and  re- 
venge— had  that  effect  upon  Warwick  which  the  preaching  of 
some  holy  man,  dwelling  upon  the  patient  sanctity  of  the  Sa- 
viour, had  of  old  on  a  grim  Crusader,  all  incapable  himself  of 
practising  such  meek  excellence,  and  yet  all-moved  and  pene- 
trated by  its  loveliness  in  another  ;  and,  like  such  Crusader, 
the  representation  of  all  mildest  and  most  forgiving,  singularly 
stirred  up  in  the  warrior's  mind  images  precisely  the  reverse — 
images  of  armed  valor  and  stern  vindication,  as  if  where  the 
Cross  was  planted  sprang  from  the  earth  the  standard  and  the 
war-horse  ! 

"  Perish  your  foes  !  May  war  and  storm  scatter  them  as 
the  chaff  !  My  liege,  my  royal  master,"  continued  the  Earl, 
in  a  deep,  low,  faltering  voice,  "  why  knew  I  not  thy  holy  and 
princely  heart  before  ?  Why  stood  so  many  between  Warwick's 
devotion  and  a  King  so  worthy  to  command  it  ?  How  poor, 
beside  thy  great-hearted  fortitude  and  thy  Christian  heroism, 
seems  the  savage  valor  of  false  Edward  !  Shame  upon  one 
who  can  betray  the  trust  thou  hast  placed  in  him.  Never  will 
I !  Never !  I  swear  it  !  No  !  though  all  England  desert 
thee,  I  will  stand  alone  with  my  breast  of  mail  before  thy 
throne  !  Oh,  would  that  my  triumph  had  been  less  peaceful 
and  less  bloodless  !  Would  that  a  hundred  battlefields  were 
yet  left  to  prove  how  deeply — deeply  in  his  heart  of  hearts — 
Warwick  feels  the  forgiveness  of  his  King  ! " 

"  Not  so — not  so — not  so — not  battlefields,  Warwick  !  "  said 
Henry.  "  Ask  not  to  serve  the  King  by  shedding  one  subject's 
blood." 


THE    LAST    OF    THF.    HARONS.  527 

"  Your  pious  will  be  obeyed  !  "  replied  Warwick.  "  We  will 
see  if  mercy  can  effect  in  others  what  thy  pardon  effects  in  me. 
And  now,  my  liege,  no  longer  must  these  walls  confine  thee. 
The  chambers  of  the  palace  await  their  sovereign.  What  ho, 
there  !  " — and  .going  to  the  door,  he  threw  it  open,  and  agree- 
ably to  the  orders  he  had  given  below,  all  the  officers  left  in 
the  fortress  stood  crowded  together  in  the  small  ante-room, 
bareheaded,  with  tapers  in  their  hands,  to  conduct  the  mon- 
arch to  the  halls  of  his  conquered  foe. 

At  the  sudden  sight  of  the  Earl,  these  men,  struck  involun- 
tarily and  at  once  by  the  grandeur  of  his  person  and  his  ani- 
mated aspect,  burst  forth  with  the  rude  retainer's  cry :  "  A 
Warwick  !  a  Warwick  !" 

"  Silence  !  "  thundered  the  Earl's  deep  voice.  "Who  names 
the  subject  in  the  sovereign's  presence  ?  Behold  your  King  !  " 

The  men,  abashed  by  the  reproof,  bowed  their  heads  and 
sank  on  their  knees,  as  Warwick  took  a  taper  from  the  table,  to 
lead  the  way  from  the  prison. 

Then  Henry  turned  slowly,  and  gazed  with  a  lingering  eye 
upon  the  walls,  which  even  sorrow  and  solitude  had  endeared. 
The  little  oratory — the  crucifix — the  relics — the  embers  burn- 
ing low  on  the  hearth — the  rude  timepiece — all  took  to  his 
thoughtful  eye  an  almost  human  aspect  of  melancholy  and 
omen  ;  and  the  bird,  roused,  whether  by  the  glare  of  the  lights 
or  the  recent  shout  of  the  men,  opened  its  bright  eyes,  and 
fluttering  restlessly  to  and  fro,  shrilled  out  its  favorite  sentence  : 
"  Poor  Henry  !  poor  Henry  ! — wicked  men  ! — who  would  be 
a  King?" 

"  Thou  hearest  it,  Warwick?"  said  Henry,  shaking  his  head. 

"  Could  an  eagle  speak,  it  would  have  another  cry  than  the 
starling,"  returned  the  Earl,  with  a  proud  smile. 

"  Why,  look  you,"  said  the  King,  once  more  releasing  the 
bird,  which  settled  on  his  wrist,  "  the  eagle  had  broken  his 
heart  in  the  narrow  cage — the  eagle  had  been  no  comforter  for 
a  captive  ;  it  is  these  gentler  ones  that  love  and  soothe  us  best 
in  our  adversities.  Tray,  Tray,  fawn  not  now,  sirrah,  or  I  shall 
think  thouhast  been  false  in  thy  fondness  heretofore  !  Cousin, 
I  attend  you." 

And  with  his  bird  on  his  wrist,  his  dog  at  his  heels,  Henry 
VI.  followed  the  Earl  to  the  illuminated  hall  of  Edward,  where 
the  table  was  spread  for  the  royal  repast,  and  where  his  old 
friends,  Manning,  Bedle,  and  Allerton,  stood  weeping  for  joy  ; 
while  from  the  gallery  raised  aloft,  the  musicians  gave  forth 
the  rough  and  stirring  melody  which  had  gradually  fallen  out 


528  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

of  usage,  but  which  was  once  the  Norman's  national  air,  and 
which  the  warlike  Margaret  of  Anjou  had  retaught  to  her 
minstrels — "  THE  BATTLE  HYMN  OF  ROLLO." 


BOOK  XI. 

THE   NEW    POSITION    OF     THE    KING-MAKER. 
CHAPTER  I. 

WHEREIN  MASTER  ADAM  WARNER  IS  NOTABLY  COMMENDED 
AND  ADVANCED — AND  GREATNESS  SAYS  TO  WISDOM,  "  THY 
DESTINY  BE  MINE,  AMEN." 

THE  Chronicles  inform  us,  that  two  or  three  days  after  the 
entrance  of  Warwick  and  Clarence,  viz.,  on  the  6th  of  October, 
those  two  leaders,  accompanied  by  the  Lords  Shrewsbury, 
Stanley,  and  a  numerous  and  noble  train,  visited  the  Tower  in 
formal  state,  and  escorted  the  King,  robed  in  blue  velvet,  the 
crown  on  his  head,  to  public  thanksgivings  at  St.  Paul's,  and 
thence  to  the  Bishop's  palace,*  where  he  continued  chiefly  to 
reside. 

The  proclamation  that  announced  the  change  of  dynasty 
was  received  with  apparent  acquiescence  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  restoration  of  the  Lan- 
castrian line  seemed  yet  the  more  firm  and  solid  by  the  magnan- 
imous forbearance  of  Warwick  and  his  councils.  Not  one 
execution  that  could  be  termed  the  act  of  a  private  revenge 
stained  with  blood  the  second  reign  of  the  peaceful  Henry. 
One  only  head  fell  on  the  scaffold — that  of  the  Earl  of  Wor- 
cester.f  This  solitary  execution,  which  was  regarded  by  all 
classes  as  a  due  concession  to  justice,  only  yet  more  illustrated 
the  general  mildness  of  the  new  rule. 

It  was  in  the  earliest  days  of  this  sudden  Restoration,  that 
Alwyn  found  the  occasion  to  serve  his  friends  in  the  Tower. 

*  Not  to  the  Palace  at  Westminster,  as  some  historians,  preferring  the  French  to  the 
English  authorities,  have  asserted  ;  that  palace  was  out  of  repair. 

t  Lord  Warwick  himself  did  not  sit  in  judgment  on  Worcester.  He  was  tried  and  con- 
demned by  Lord  Oxford.  Though  some  old  offences  in  his  Irish  Government  were  alleged 
against  him,  the  cruelties  which  rendered  him  so  odious  were  of  recent  date.  He  had  (as 
we  before  took  occasion  to  relate)  impaled  twenty  persons  after  Warwick's  flight  into 
France.  The  "  Warkworth  Chronicle  "  says  :  "  He  was  ever  afterwardes  greatly  behated 
among  the  people  for  this  disordynatc  dethe  that  he  used,  contrary  to  the  laws  of  the 
lande/* 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  .    529 

Warwick  was  eager  to  conciliate  all  the  citizens,  who,  whether 
frankly  or  grudgingly,  had  supported  his  cause  ;  and,  amongst 
these,  he  was  soon  informed  of  the  part  taken  in  the  Guildhall 
by  the  rising  goldsmith.  He  sent  for  Alwyn  to  his  house  in 
Warwick  Lane,  and  after  complimenting  him  on  his  advance 
in  life  and  repute,  since  Nicholas  had  waited  on  him  with  bau- 
bles for  his  embassy  to  France,  he  offered  him  the  special  rank 
of  goldsmith  to  the  King. 

The  wary,  yet  honest,  trader  paused  a  moment  in  some 
embarrassment  before  he  answered  : 

"  My  good  lord,  you  are  noble  and  gracious  eno'  to  under- 
stand and  forgive  me  when  I  say  that  I  have  had,  in  the  upstart 
of  my  fortunes,  the  countenance  of  the  late  King  Edward  and 
his  Queen  ;  and  though  the  public  weal  made  me  advise  my 
fellow-citizens  not  to  resist  your  entry,  I  would  not,  at  least, 
have  it  said  that  my  desertion  had  benefited  my  private  for- 
tunes." 

Warwick  colored,  and  his  lip  curled.     "  Tush,  man,  assume 
not  virtues  which  do  not  exist  amongst  the  sons  of  trade,  nor, 
much  I  trow,  amongst  the  sons  of  Adam.     I  read  thy  mind 
Thou  thinkest  it  unsafe  openly  to  commit  thyself  to  the  new 
state.     Fear  not — we  are  firm." 

"  Nay,  my  lord,"  returned  Alwyn,  "it  is  not  so.  But  there 
are  many  better  citizens  than  I  who  remember  that  the  York- 
ists were  ever  friends  to  commerce.  And  you  will  find  that 
only  by  great  tenderness  to  our  crafts  you  can  win  the  heart  of 
London,  though  you  have  passed  its  gates." 

"  I  shall  be  just  to  all  men,"  answered  the  Earl  dryly  ;  "  but 
if  the  flat-caps  are  false,  there  are  eno'  of  bonnets  of  steel  to 
watch  over  the  Red  Rose  !  " 

"  You  are  said,  my  lord,"  returned  Alwyn  bluntly,  "  to  love 
the  barons,  the  knights,  the  gentry,  the  yeomen,  and  the  peas- 
ants, but  to  despise  the  traders — I  fear  me,  that  report  in  this 
is  true." 

"  I  love  not  the  trader  spirit,  man — the  spirit  that  cheats, 
and  cringes,  and  haggles,  and  splits  straws  for  pence,  and  roasts 
eggs  by  other  men's  blazing  rafters.  Edward  of  York,  forsooth, 
was  a  great  trader  !  It  was  a  sorry  hour  for  England,  when 
such  as  ye,  Nick  Alwyn,  left  your  green  villages  for  loom  and 
booth.  But  thus  far  have  I  spoken  to  you  as  a  brave  fellow, 
and  of  the  north  countree.  I  have  no  time  to  waste  on  words. 
Wilt  thou  accept  mine  offer,  or  name  another  boon,  in  my 
power?  The  man  who  hath  served  me,  wrongs  me — till  I  have 
Served  him  again  /  " 


530  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

"  My  lord,  yes  ;  I  \\ill  name  such  a  boon  :  safety,  and  if  you 
will,  some  grace  anH  honor,  to  a  learned  scholar  now  in  the 
Tower — one  Adam  Warner,  whom — " 

"  Now  in  the  Tower  !  Adam  Warner  !  And  wanting  a 
friend,  I  no  more  an  exile  !  That  is  my  affair,  not  thine. 
Grace,  honor — ay,  to  his  heart's  content.  And  his  noble 
daughter!  Mort  Dieu!  she  shall  choose  her  bridegroom 
among  the  best  of  England.  Is  she,  too,  in  the  fortreNS?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Alwyn  briefly,  not  liking  the  labt  part  of  the 
Earl's  speech. 

The  Earl  rang  the  bell  on  his  table.  "Send  hither  Sir  Mar- 
maduke  Nevile." 

Alwyn  saw  his  former  rival  enter,  and  heard  the  Earl  com- 
mission him  to  accompany,  with  a  fitting  train,  his  own  litter 
to  the  Tower.  ''And  you,  Alwyn,  go  with  your  foster-brother 
and  pray  Master  Warner  and  his  daughter  to  be  my  guests  for 
their  own  pleasure.  Come  hither,  my  rude  Northman — come. 
I  see  1  shall  have  many  secret  foes  in  this  city — wilt  not  thou 
at  least  be  Warwick's  open  friend  ?" 

Alwyn  found  it  hard  to  resist  the  charm  of  the  Earl's  man- 
ner and  voice,  but,  convinced  in  his  own  mind  that  the  age  was 
against  Warwick,  and  that  commerce  and  London  would  be 
little  advantaged  by  the  Earl's  rule,  the  trading  spirit  prevailed 
in  his  breast. 

"Gracious  my  lord,"  he  said,  bending  his  knee  in  no  servile 
homage,  "he  who  befriends  my  order,  commands  me." 

The  proud  noble  bit  his  lip,  and  with  a  silent  wave  of  his 
hand  dismissed  the  foster-brothers. 

"  Thou  art  but  a  churl  at  best,  Nick,"  said  Marmaduke,  as  the 
door  closed  on  the  young  men.  "  Many  a  baron  would  have 
sold  his  father's  hall  for  such  words  from  the  Earl's  lip." 

"  Let  barons  sell  their  free  conduct  for  fair  words.  I  keep 
myself  unshackled,  to  join  that  cause  which  best  fills  the  market, 
and  reforms  the  law.  But  tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  sir  knight,  what 
makes  Warner  and  his  daughter  so  dear  to  your  lord  ? " 

"  What !  know  you  not !  And  has  she  not  told  you  ?  Ah, 
what  was  I  about  to  say  ?  " 

"  Can  there  be  a  secret  between  the  Earl  and  the  scholar  ? " 
asked  Alwyn,  in  wonder. 

"If  there  be,  it  is  our  place  to  respect  it,"  returned  the 
Nevile,  adjusting  his  manteline — "and  now  we  must  command 
the  litter." 

In  spite  of  all  the  more  urgent  and  harassing  affairs  that 
pressed  upon  him  the  Earl  found  an  early  time  to  attend  to  his 


THE   LASt   OF    THE   BARONS.  53 i 

guests.  His  welcome  to  Sibyll  was  more  than  courteous — it 
was  paternal.  As  she  approached  him,  timidly,  and  with  a 
downcast  eye,  he  advanced,  placed  his  hand  upon  her  head  : 

"  The  Holy  Mother  ever  have  thee  in  her  charge,  child.  This 
is  a  father's  ki»s,  young  mistress,"  added  the  Earl,  pressing  his 
lips  to  her  forehead  ;  "and  in  this  kiss,  remember  that  I  pledge 
to  thee  care  for  thy  fortunes,  honor  for  thy  name — my  heart 
to  do  thee  service,  my  arm  to  shield  from  wrong  !  Brave 
scholar,  thy  lot  has  become  interwoven  with  my  own.  Pros- 
perous is  now  my  destiny — my  destiny  be  thine  !  Amen  !  " 

He  turned  then  to  Warner,  and  without  further  reference 
to  a  past,  which  so  galled  his  proud  spirit,  he  made  the  scholar 
explain  to  him  the  nature  of  his  labors.  In  the  mind  of  every 
man  who  has  passed  much  of  his  life  in  successful  action, 
there  is  a  certain,  if  we  may  so  say,  untaught  mathesis,  but 
especially  among  those  who  have  been  bred  to  the  art  of  war. 
A  great  soldier  is  a  great  mechanic,  a  great  mathematician, 
though  he  may  know  it  not  ;  and  Warwick,  therefore,  better 
than  many  a  scholar,  comprehended  the  principle  upon  which 
Adam  founded  his  experiments.  But  though  he  caught  also  a 
glimpse  of  the  vast  results  which  such  experiments  in  them- 
selves were  calculated  to  effect,  his  strong  common-sense  per- 
ceived yet  more  clearly  that  the  time  was  not  ripe  for  such 
startling  inventions. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "I  comprehend  thee  passably.  It  is 
clear  to  me,  that  if  thou  canst  succeed  in  making  the  elements 
do  the  work  of  man  with  equal  precision,  but  with  far  greater 
force  and  rapidity,  thou  must  multiply  eventually,  and,  by 
multiplying,  cheapen,  all  the  products  of  industry  ;  that  thou 
must  give  to  this  country  the  market  of  the  world,  and  that 
time  would  be  the  true  alchemy  that  turneth  all  to  gold." 

"  Mighty  intellect,  thou  graspest  the  truth!  "  exclaimed  Adam. 

"  But,"  pursued  the  Earl,  with  a  mixture  of  prejudice  and 
judgment,  "  grant  the  success  to  the  full,  and  thou  wouldst  turn 
this  bold  land  of  yeomanry  and  manhood  into  one  community 
of  griping  traders  and  sickly  artisans.  Mort  Dieu !  we  are 
over-commerced  as  it  is — the  bow  is  already  deserted  ic?  the 
ell  measure.  The  town  populations  are  ever  the  most  worth- 
less in  war.  England  is  begirt  with  mailed  foes  ;  and  if  by 
one  process  she  were  to  accumulate  treasure  and  lose  soldiers, 
she  would  but  tempt  invasion  and  emasculate  defenders. 
Verily,  I  advise  and  implore  thee  to  turn  thy  wit  and  scholar- 
ship to  a  manlier  occupation  !  " 

"My  life  knows  no  other   object — kill  my  labor  and  thou 


532  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

destroyest  me,"  said  Adam,  in  a  voice  of  gloomy  despair. 
Alas,  it  seemed  that,  whatever  the  changes  of  power,  no  change 
could  better  the  hopes  of  science  in  an  age  of  iron  ! 

Warwick  was  moved.  "Well,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "be 
happy  in  thine  own  way.  I  will  do  my  best,  at  least,  to  protect 
thee.  To-morrow  resume  thy  labors  ;  but  this  day,  at  least, 
thou  must  feast  with  me." 

And  at  his  banquet  that  day,  among  the  knights  and  barons, 
and  the  abbots  and  the  warriors,  Adam  sate  on  the  dais,  near 
the  Earl,  and  Sibyll  at  "  the  mess "  of  the  ladies  of  the 
Duchess  of  Clarence.  And  ere  the  feast  broke  up,  Warwick 
thus  addressed  his  company  : 

"  My  friends  :  Though  I,  and  most  of  us  reared  in  the  lap 
of  war,  have  little  other  clerkship  than  sufficed  our  bold 
fathers  before  us,  yet  in  the  free  towns  of  Italy  and  the 
Rhine — yea,  and  in  France,  under  her  politic  King — we  may 
see  that  a  day  is  dawning  wherein  new  knowledge  will  teach 
many  marvels  to  our  wiser  sons.  Wherefore  it  is  good  that  a 
state  should  foster  men  who  devote  laborious  nights  and 
weary  days  to  the  advancement  of  arts  and  letters,  for  the 
glory  of  our  common  land.  A  worthy  gentleman,  now  at  this 
board,  hath  deeply  meditated  contrivances  which  may  make 
our  English  artisans  excel  the  Flemish  looms,  who  now  fatten 
upon  our  industry  to  the  impoverishment  of  the  realm.  And, 
above  all,  he  also  proposes  to  complete  an  invention  which 
may  render  our  ship-craft  the  most  notable  in  Europe.  Of 
this  I  say  no  more  at  the  present  ;  but  I  commend  our  guest, 
Master  Adam  Warner,  to  your  good  service,  and  pray  you 
especially,  worshipful  sirs  of  the  Church  now  present,  to  shield 
his  good  name  from  that  charge  which  most  paineth  and 
endangereth  honest  men.  For  ye  wot  well  that  the  commons, 
from  ignorance,  would  impute  all  to  witchcraft  that  passeth 
their  understanding.  Not,"  added  the  Earl,  crossing  himself, 
"that  witchcraft  does  not  horribly  infect  the  land,  and  hath 
been  largely  practised  by  Jacquetta  of  Bedford,  and  her  con- 
federates, Bungey  and  others.  But  our  cause  needeth  no  such 
aid  ;  and  all  that  Master  Warner  purposes  is  in  behalf  of  the 
people,  and  in  conformity  with  Holy  Church.  So  this  waisall 
to  his  health  and  house." 

This  characteristic  address  being  received  with  respect, 
though  with  less  applause  than  usually  greeted  the  speeches  of 
the  great  Earl,  Warwick  added,  in  a  softer  and  more  earnest  tone  ; 
"  And  in  the  fair  demoiselle,  his  daughter,  I  pray  you  to 
acknowledge  the  dear  friend  of  my  beloved  lady  and  child, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  533 

Anne,  Princess  of  Wales  ;  and  for  the  sake  of  her  Highness, 
and  in  her  name,  I  arrogate  to  myself  a  share  with  Master  War- 
ner in  this  young  donzell's  guardianship  and  charge.  Know 
ye,  my  gallant  gentles  and  fair  squires,  that  he  who  can  suc- 
ceed in  achieving,  either  by  leal  love  or  by  bold  deeds  as  best 
befit  a  wooer,  the  grace  of  my  young  ward,  shall  claim  from  my 
hands  a  knight's  fee,  with  as  much  of  my  best  land  as  a  bull's 
hide  can  cover  ;  and  when  Heaven  shall  grant  safe  passage  to 
the  Princess  Anne  and  her  noble  spouse,  we  will  hold  at  Smith- 
field  a  tourney  in  honor  of  St.  George  and  our  ladies,  wherein, 
pai-die,  I  myself  would  be  sorely  tempted  to  provoke  my  jeal- 
ous Countess,  and  break  a  lance  for  the  fame  of  the  demoiselle 
whose  fair  face  is  married  to  a  noble  heart." 

That  evening,  in  the  galliard,  many  an  admiring  eye  turned  to 
Sibyll,  and  many  a  young  gallant,  recalling  the  Earl's  words, 
sighed  to  win  her  grace.  There  had  been  a  time  when  such 
honor  and  such  homage  would  have,  indeed,  been  welcome ; 
but  now,  ONE  saw  them  not,  and  they  were  valueless.  All 
that,  in  her  earlier  girlhood,  Sibyll's  ambition  had  coveted  when 
musing  on  the  brilliant  world,  seemed  now  well-nigh  fulfilled  : 
her  father  protected  by  the  first  noble  of  the  land,  and  that  not 
with  the  degrading  condescension  of  the  Duchess  of  Bedford, 
but  as  Power  alone  should  protect  Genius — honored  while  it 
honors  ;  her  gentle  birth  recognized  ;  her  position  elevated  ; 
fair  fortunes  smiling,  after  such  rude  trials  ;  and  all  won  with- 
out servility  or  abasement.  But  her  ambition  having  once 
exhausted  itself  in  a  diviner  passion,  all  excitement  seemed 
poor  and  spiritless  compared  to  the  lonely  waiting  at  the  hum- 
ble farm  for  the  voice  and  step  of  Hastings.  Nay,  but  for  her 
father's  sake,  she  could  almost  have  loathed  the  pleasure  and 
the  pomp,  and  the  admiration  and  the  homage,  which  seemed 
to  insult  the  reverses  of  the  wandering  exile. 

The  Earl  had  designed  to  place  Sibyll  among  Isabel's  ladies, 
but  the  haughty  air  of  the  Duchess  chilled  the  poor  girl  ;  and 
pleading  the  excuse  that  her  father's  health  required  her  con- 
stant attendance,  she  prayed  permission  to  rest  with  Warner 
wherever  he  might  be  lodged.  Adam  himself,  now  that  the 
Duchess  of  Bedford  and  Friar  Bungey  were  no  longer  in  the 
Tower,  entreated  permission  to  return  to  the  place  where  he 
had  worked  the  most  successfully  upon  the  beloved  Eureka, 
and,  as  the  Tower  seemed  a  safer  residence  than  any  private 
home  could  be,  from  popular  prejudice  and  assault,  Warwick 
kindly  ordered  apartments,  far  more  commodious  than  they 
had  yet  occupied,  to  be  appropriated  to  the  father  and  daugh- 


534  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

ter.  Several  attendants  were  assigned  to  them,  and  never  was 
man  of  letters  or  science  more  honored  now  than  the  poor 
scholar,  who,  till  then,  had  been  so  persecuted  and  despised  ! 

Who  shall  tell  Adam's  serene  delight  !  Alchemy  and  astrol- 
ogy at  rest — no  imperious  Duchess — no  hateful  Bungey — his 
free  mind  left  to  its  congenial  labors  !  And  Sibyll,  when  they 
met,  strove  to  wear  a  cheerful  brow,  praying  him  only  never  to 
speak  to  her  of  Hastings.  The  good  old  man,  relapsing  into 
his  wonted  mechanical  existence,  hoped  she  had  forgotten  a 
girl's  evanescent  fancy. 

But  the  peculiar  distinction  showed  by  the  Earl  to  Warner 
confirmed  the  reports  circulated  by  Bungey — "  that  he  was, 
indeed,  a  fearful  nigromancer,  who  had  much  helped  the  Earl 
in  his  emprise."  The  Earl's  address  to  his  guests  in  behalf 
both  of  VVarner  and  Sibyll  ;  the  high  state  accorded  to  the 
student,  reached  even  the  sanctuary  ;  for  the  fugitives  there 
easily  contrived  to  learn  all  the  gossip  of  the  city.  Judge  of 
the  effect  the  tale  produced  upon  the  envious  Bungey — judge 
of  the  representations  it  enabled  him  to  make  to  the  credulous 
Duchess  !  It  was  clear  now  to  Jacquetta,  as  the  sun  in  noon- 
day, that  Warwick  rewarded  the  evil-predicting  astrologer  for 
much  dark  and  secret  service,  which  Bungey,  had  she  listened 
to  him,  might  have  frustrated  ;  and  she  promised  the  friar  that, 
if  ever  again  she  had  the  power,  Warner  and  the  Eureka  should 
be  placed  at  his  sole  mercy  and  discretion. 

The  friar  himself,  however,  growing  very  weary  of  the  dull- 
ness of  the  sanctuary,  and  covetous  of  the  advantages  enjoyed 
by  Adam,  began  to  meditate  acquiescence  in  the  fashion  of  the 
day,  and  a  transfer  of  his  allegiance  to  the  party  in  power. 
Emboldened  by  the  clemency  of  the  victors ;  learning  that  no 
rewards  for  his  own  apprehension  had  been  offered  ;  hoping 
that  the  stout  Earl  would  forget  or  forgive  the  old  offence  of 
the  waxen  effigies  ;  and  aware  of  the  comparative  security  his 
friar's  gown  and  cowl  afforded  him,  he  resolved  one  day  to 
venture  forth  from  his  retreat.  He  even  flattered  himself  that 
he  could  cajole  Adam,  whom  he  really  believed  the  possessor 
of  some  high  and  weird  secrets,  but  whom  otherwise  he 
despised  as  a  very  weak  creature,  into  forgiving  his  past 
brutalities,  and  soliciting  the  Earl  to  take  him  into  favor. 

At  dusk,  then,  and  by  the  aid  of  one  of  the  subalterns  of  the 
Tower,  whom  he  had  formerly  made  his  friend,  the  friar  got 
admittance  into  Warner's  chamber.  Now  it  so  chanced  that 
Adam,  having  his  own  superstitions,  had  lately  taken  it  into  his 
head  that  ail  the  various  disasters  which  had  befallen  the 


THE   LAST    OF   THE    BARONS.  535 

Eureka,  together  with  all  the  little  blemishes  and  defects  that 
yei  marred  its  construction,  were  owing  to  the  want  of  the  dia- 
mond bathed  in  the  mystic  moonbeams,  which  his  German 
authority  had  long  so  emphatically  prescribed  ;  and  now  that 
a  monthly  stipend  far  exceeding  his  wants  was  at  his  disposal, 
and  that  it  became  him  to  do  all  possible  honor  to  the  Earl's 
patronage,  he  resolved  that  the  diamond  should  be  no  longer 
absent  from  the  operations  it  was  to  influence.  He  obtained 
one  of  passable  size  and  sparkle,  exposed  it  the  due  number  of 
nights  to  the  new  moon,  and  had  already  prepared  its  place  in 
the  Eureka,  and  was  contemplating  it  with  solemn  joy,  when 
Bungey  entered. 

"  Mighty  brother,"  said  the  friar,  bowing  to  the  ground,  "be 
merciful  as  thou  art  strong  !  Verily  thou  hast  proved  thyself 
the  magician,  and  I  but  a  poor  wretch  in  comparison — forlo!  thou 
art  rich  and  honored,  and  I  poor  and  proscribed  !  Deign  to  for- 
give thine  enemy,  and  take  him  as  thy  slave  by  right  of  conquest. 
Oh,  Cogsbones  ! — oh,  Gemini  !  what  a  jewel  thou  hast  got  !  " 

"  Depart  !  Thou  disturbest  me,"  said  Adam,  oblivious,  in 
his  absorption,  of  the  exact  reasons  for  his  repugnance,  but 
feeling  indistinctly  that  something  very  loathsome  and  hateful 
was  at  his  elbow,  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  fitted  the  diamond  into 
its  socket. 

"  What !  a  jewel !  a  diamond  ! — in  the — in  the — in  the — ME- 
CHANICAL !  "  faltered  the  friar,  in  profound  astonishment,  his 
mouth  watering  at  the  sight.  If  the  Eureka  were  to  be  envied 
before,  how  much  more  enviable  now  !  "  If  ever  I  get  thee  again, 
O  ugly  talisman  !  "  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  I  shall  know  where 
to  look  for  something  better  than  a  pot  to  boil  eggs  !  " 

"  Depart,  I  say  !  "  repeated  Adam,  turning  round  at  last,  and 
shuddering  as  he  now  clearly  recognized  the  friar,  and  recalled 
his  malignity.  "  Darest  thou  molest  me  still?" 

The  friar  abjectly  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  after  a  long  exor- 
dium of  penitent  excuses,  entreated  the  scholar  to  intercede  in 
his  favor  with  the  Earl. 

"  I  want  not  all  thy  honors  and  advancement,  great  Adam — I 
want  only  to  serve  thee,  trim  thy  furnace,  and  hand  thee  thy 
tools,  and  work  out  my  apprenticeship  under  thee,  master. 
As  for  the  Earl,  he  will  listen  to  thee,  I  know,  if  thou  tellest 
him  that  I  had  the  trust  of  his  foe,  the  Duchess  ;  that  I  can 
give  him  all  her  closest  secrets  ;  that  I — " 

"  Avaunt  !  Thou  art  worse  than  I  deemed  thee,  wretch  ! 
Cruel  and  ignorant  I  knew  thee — and  now,  mean  and  perfidious  ! 
/  work  with  thee,'  I  commend  to  the  Earl  a  living  disgrace  tg 


536  THE    LAST    OF    THE    HARONS. 

the  name  of  scholar  !  Never  !  If  thou  wante.st  bread  and 
alms,  those  I  can  give,  as  a  Christian  gives  to  want  ;  but  trust, 
and  honor,  and  learned  repute,  and  noble  toils — those  are  not 
for  the  impostor  and  the  traitor.  There — there — there  !  " 
And  he  ran  to  a  closet,  took  out  a  handful  of  small  coins,  thrust 
them  into  the  friar's  hands,  and,  pushing  him  to  the  door, 
called  to  the  servants  to  see  his  visitor  to  the  gates.  The  friar 
turned  round  with  a  scowl.  He  did  not  dare  to  utter  a  threat, 
but  he  vowed  a  vow  in  his  soul,  and  went  his  way. 

It  chanced,  some  days  after  this,  that  Adam,  in  one  of  hit 
musing  rambles  about  the  precincts  of  the  Tower,  which  (since 
it  was  not  then  inhabited  as  a  palace)  was  all  free  to  his  rare 
and  desultory  wanderings,  came  by  some  workmen  employed 
in  repairing  a  bombard ;  and,  as  whatever  was  of  mechanical  art 
always  woke  his  interest,  he  paused,  and  pointed  out  to  them  a 
very  simple  improvement  which  would  necessarily  tend  to  make 
the  balls  go  farther  and  more  direct  to  their  object.  The  prin- 
cipal workman,  struck  with  his  remarks,  ran  to  one  of  the  officers 
of  the  Tower;  the  officer  came  to  listen  to  the  learned  man 
and  then  went  to  the  Earl  of  Warwick  to  declare  that  Master 
Warner  had  the  most  wonderful  comprehension  of  military 
mechanism.  The  Earl  sent  for  Warner,  seized  at  once  upon 
the  very  simple  truth  he  suggested  as  to  the  proper  width  of 
the  bore,  and  holding  him  in  higher  esteem  than  he  had  ever 
done  before,  placed  some  new  cannon  he  was  constructing 
under  his  superintendence.  As  this  care  occupied  but  little  of 
his  time,  Warner  was  glad  to  show  gratitude  to  the  Earl,  look- 
ing upon  the  destructive  engines  simply  as  mechanical  con- 
trivances, and  wholly  unconscious  of  the  new  terror  he  gave  to 
his  name. 

Soon  did  the  indignant  and  conscience-stricken  Duchess  of 
Bedford  hear,  in  the  Sanctuary,  that  the  fell  wizard  she  had 
saved  from  the  clutches  of  Bungey  was  preparing  the  most 
dreadful,  infallible,  and  murtherous  instruments  of  war,  against 
the  possible  return  of  her  son-in-law! 

Leaving  Adam  to  his  dreams,  and  his  toils,  and  his  horrible 
reputation,  we  return  to  the  world  upon  the  surface — the  Life 
of  Action. 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE    PROSPERITY    OF    THE    OUTER   SHOW — THE    CARES   OF     THE 
INNER   MAN. 

THE  position  of  the  king-maker  was,  to  a  superficial  ob- 
server, such  as  might  gratify  to  the  utmost  the  ambition  and 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  537 

the  pride  of  man.  He  had  driven  from  the  land  one  of  the 
most  gorgeous  princes  and  one  of  the  boldest  warriors  that  ever 
sate  upon  a  throne.  He  had  changed  a  dynasty  without  a 
blow.  In  the  alliances  of  his  daughters,  whatever  chanced,  it 
seemed  certain  that,  by  one  or  the  other,  his  posterity  would  be 
the  kings  of  England. 

The  easiness  of  his  victory  appeared  to  prove  of  itself  that 
the  hearts  of  the  people  were  with  him ;  and  the  Parliament 
that  he  hastened  to  summon  confirmed  by  law  the  revolution 
achieved  by  a  bloodless  sword.* 

Nor  was  there  aught  abroad  which  menaced  disturbance  to 
the  peace  at  home.  Letters  from  the  Countess  of  Warwick  and 
Lady  Anne  announced  their  triumphant  entry  at  Paris,  where 
Margaret  of  Anjou  was  received  with  honors  never  before  ren- 
dered but  to  a  Queen  of  France. 

A  solemn  embassy,  m«anwhile,  was  preparing  to  proceed 
from  Paris  to  London,  to  congratulate  Henry,  and  establish  a 
permanent  treaty  of  peace  and  commerce.!  While  Charles  of 
Burgundy  himself  (the  only  ally  left  to  Edward),  supplicated 
for  the  continuance  of  amicable  relations  with  England ;  stating 
that  they  were  formed  with  the  country,  not  with  any  special 
person  who  might  wear  the  crown  ;J  and  forbade  his  subjects 
by  proclamation  to  join  any  enterprise  for  the  recovery  of  his 
throne,  which  Edward  might  attempt. 

The  conduct  of  Warwick,  whom  the  Parliament  had  de- 
clared, conjointly  with  Clarence,  protector  of  the  realm  during 
the  minority  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  was  worthy  of  the  tri- 
umph he  had  obtained.  He  exhibited  now  a  greater  genius 
for  government  than  he  had  yet  displayed.  For  all  his  pas- 
sions were  nerved  to  the  utmost,  to  consummate  his  victory, 
and  sharpen  his  faculties.  He  united  mildness  towards  the  de- 
feated faction,  with  a  firmness  which  repelled  all  attempt  at 
insurrection. § 

In  contrast  to  the  splendor  that  surrounded  his  daughter 
Anne,  all  accounts  spoke  of  the  humiliation  to  which  Charles 
subjected  the  exiled  King,  and  in  the  Sanctuary,  amidst  homi- 
cides and  felons,  the  wife  of  the  Earl's  defeated  foe  gave  birth 
to  a  male  child,  baptized  and  christened  (says  the  chronicler), 
"as  the  son  of  a  common  man."  For  the  Avenger  and  his 
children  were  regal  authority  and  gorgeous  pomp — for  the  Fugi- 
tive and  his  offspring  were  the  bread  of  the  exile,  or  the  refuge 
of  the  outlaw. 

*  I.ingard,  Hume,  etc.  t  Rymer,  xi.,  683-690. 

$  Hume— Comines.  §  Habington. 


q;,S  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

But  still  the  Earl's  prosperity  was  hollow — the  statue  of  brass 
stood  on  limbs  of  clay.  The  position  of  a  man  with  the  name 
of  subject,  but  the  authority  of  king,  was  an  unpopular  anom- 
aly in  England.  In  the  principal  trading  towns  had  been 
long  growing  up  that  animosity  towards  the  aristocracy,  of 
which  Henry  VII.  availed  himself  to  raise  a  despotism  (and 
which,  even  in  our  day,  causes  the  main  disputes  of  faction) ; 
but  the  recent  revolution  was  one  in  which  the  towns  had  had 
no  share.  It  was  a  revolution  made  by  the  representative  of 
the  barons,  and  his  followers.  It  was  connected  with  no  ad- 
vancement of  the  middle  class;  it  seemed  to  the  men  of 
commerce  but  the  violence  of  a  turbulent  and  disappointed  no- 
bility. The  very  name  given  to  Warwick's  supporters  was  un- 
popular in  the  towns.  They  were  not  called  the  Lancastrians, 
or  the  friends  of  King  Henry;  they  were  styled  then,  and  still 
are  so,  by  the  old  Chronicler,  "The  Lord's  Party."  Most  of 
whatever  was  still  feudal — the  haughtiest  of  the  magnates,  the 
rudest  of  the  yeomanry,  the  most  warlike  of  the  knights,  gave 
to  Warwick  the  sanction  of  their  allegiance ;  and  this  sanction 
was  displeasing  to  the  intelligence  of  the  towns. 

Classes  in  all  times  have  a  keen  instinct  of  their  own  class 
interests.  The  revolution  which  the  Earl  had  effected  was 
the  triumph  of  aristocracy ;  its  natural  results  would  tend  to 
strengthen  certainly  the  moral,  and  probably  the  constitu- 
tional, power  already  possessed  by  that  martial  order.  The 
new  Parliament  was  their  creature;  Henry  VI.  was  a  cipher, 
his  son  a  boy  with  unknown  character,  and,  according  to  vulgar 
scandal,  of  doubtful  legitimacy,  seemingly  bound  hand  and 
foot  in  the  trammels  of  the  arch-baron's  mighty  house;  the 
Earl  himself  had  never  scrupled  to  evince  a  distaste  to  the 
change  in  society  which  was  slowly  converting  an  agricultural 
into  a  trading  population. 

It  may  be  observed,  too,  that  a  middle  class  as  rarely  unites 
itself  with  the  idols  of  the  populace  as  with  the  chiefs  of  a  seig- 
norie.  The  brute  attachment  of  the  peasants  and  the  mobs  to 
the  gorgeous  and  lavish  Earl  seemed  to  the  burgesses  the  sign 
of  a  barbaric  clanship,  opposed  to  that  advance  in  civilization 
towards  which  they  half-unconsciously  struggled. 

And  here  we  must  rapidly  glance  at  what,  as  far  as  a  states- 
man may  foresee,  would  have  been  the  probable  result  of  War- 
wick's ascendancy,  if  durable  and  effectual.  If  attached,  by 
prejudice  and  birth,  to  the  aristocracy,  he  was  yet,  by  reputa- 
tion and  habit,  attached  also  to  the  popular  party — that  party 
more  popular  than  the  middle  class — the  majority — the  masses; 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  539 

his  whole  life  had  been  one  struggle  against  despotism  in  the 
crown.  Though  far  from  entertaining  such  schemes  as  in 
similar  circumstances  might  have  occurred  to  the  deep  sagacity 
of  an  Italian  patrician  for  the  interest  of  his  order,  no  doubt 
his  policy  would  have  tended  to  this  one  aim — the  limitation  of 
the  monarchy  by  the  strength  of  an  aristocracy  endeared  to  the 
agricultural  population ;  owing  to  that  population  its  own  pow- 
ers of  defence,  with  the  wants  and  grievances  of  that  popula- 
tion thoroughly  familiar,  and  willing  to  satisfy  the  one  and 
redress  the  other:  in  short,  the  great  baron  would  have 
secured  and  promoted  liberty  according  to  the  notions  of  a 
seigneur  and  a  Norman,  by  making  the  King  but  the  first  noble- 
man of  the  realm.  Had  the  policy  lasted  long  enough  to  suc- 
ceed, the  subsequent  despotism,  which  changed  a  limited  into 
an  absolute  monarchy  under  the  Tudors,  would  have  been  pre- 
vented, with  all  the  sanguinary  reaction,  in  which  the  Stuarts 
were  the  sufferers.  The  Earl's  family,  and  his  own  "large 
father-like  heart,"  had  ever  been  opposed  to  religious  persecu- 
tion ;  and  timely  toleration  to  the  Lollards  might  have  pre- 
vented the  long-delayed  revenge  of  their  posterity,  the  Puritans. 
Gradually,  perhaps,  might  the  system  he  represented  (of  the 
whole  consequences  of  which  he  was  unconscious)  have 
changed  monarchic  into  aristocratic  government,  resting,  how- 
ever, upon  broad  and  popular  institutions ;  but  no  doubt,  also, 
the  middle,  or  rather  the  commercial  class,  with  all  the  bless- 
ings that  attend  their  power,  would  have  risen  much  more 
slowly  than  when  made  as  they  were  already,  partially  under 
Edward  IV.,  and  more  systematically  under  Henry  VII.,  the 
instrument  for  destroying  feudal  aristocracy,  and  thereby  es- 
tablishing, for  a  long  and  fearful  interval,  the  arbitrary  rule  of 
the  single  tyrant.  Warwick's  dislike  to  the  commercial  biasses 
of  Edward  was,  in  fact,  not  a  patrician  prejudice  alone.  It 
required  no  great  sagacity  to  perceive  that  Edward  had  de- 
signed to  raise  up  a  class  that,  though  powerful  when  employed 
against  the  barons,  would  long  be  impotent  against  the  en- 
croachments of  the  crown ;  and  the  Earl  viewed  that  class  not 
only  as  foes  to  his  own  order,  but  as  tools  for  the  destruction 
of  the  ancient  liberties. 

Without  presuming  to  decide  which  policy,  upon  the  whole, 
would  have  been  the  happier  for  England — the  one  that  based 
a  despotism  on  the  middle  class,  or  the  one  that  founded  an 
aristocracy  upon  popular  affection — it  was  clear  to  "the  more 
enlightened  burgesses  of  the  great  towns,  that  between  Edward 
of  York  and  the  Earl  of  Warwick  a  vast  principle  was  at 


THE    LAST   OF    THF.    BARONS. 

stake  and  the  commercial  King  seemed  to  them  a  more  natural 
ally  than  the  feudal  baron  ;  and  equally  clear  is  it  to  us,  now, 
that  tne  true  spirit  of  the  age  fought  for  the  false  Edward,  and 
against  the  honest  Earl. 

Warwick  did  not,  however,  apprehend  any  serious  results 
from  the  passive  distaste  of  the  trading  towns.  His  martial 
spirit  led  him  to  despise  the  least  martial  part  of  the  popula- 
tion. He  knew  that  the  towns  would  not  rise  in  arms,  so  long 
as  their  charters  were  respected ;  and  that  slow  undermining 
hostility  which  exists  only  in  opinion,  his  intellect,  so  vigorous 
in  immediate  dangers,  was  not  far-sighted  enough  to  compre- 
hend. More  direct  cause  for  apprehension  would  there  have 
been  to  a  suspicious  mind  in  the  demeanor  of  the  Earl's  col- 
league in  the  Protectorate — the  Duke  of  Clarence.  It  was  ob- 
viously Warwick's  policy  to  satisfy  this  weak  but  ambitious 
person.  The  Duke  was,  as  before  agreed,  declared  heir  to  the 
vast  possessions  of  the  house  of  York.  He  was  invested  with 
the  Lieutenancy  of  Ireland,  but  delayed  his  departure  to  his 
government  till  the  arrival  of  the  Prince  of  Wales.  The 
personal  honors  accorded  him  in  the  mean  while  were 
those  due  to  a  sovereign ;  but  still  the  Duke's  brow  was 
moody,  though,  if  the  Earl  noticed  it,  Clarence  rallied  into 
seeming  cheerfulness,  and  reiterated  pledges  of  faith  and 
friendship. 

The  manner  of  Isabel  to  her  father  was  varying  and  uncer- 
tain :  at  one  time  hard  and  cold ;  at  another,  as  if  in  the  re- 
action of  secret  remorse,  she  would  throw  herself  into  his  arms, 
and  pray  him,  weepingly,  to  forgive  her  wayward  humors. 
But  the  curse  of  the  Earl's  position  was  that  which  he  had 
foreseen  before  quitting  Amboise,  and  which,  more  or  less, 
attends  upon  those  who,  from  whatever  cause,  suddenly  desert 
the  party  with  which  all  their  associations,  whether  of  fame  or 
friendship,  have  been  interwoven.  His  vengeance  against  one 
had  comprehended  many  still  dear  to  him.  He  was  not  only 
separated  from  his  old  companions  in  arms,  but  he  had  driven 
their  most  eminent  into  exile.  He  stood  alone  amongst  men 
whom  the  habits  of  an  active  life  had  indissolubly  connected, 
in  his  mind,  with  recollections  of  wrath  and  wrong.  Amidst 
that  princely  company  which  begirt  him,  he  hailed  no  familiar 
face.  Even  many  of  those  who  most  detested  Edward  (or 
rather  the  Woodvilles),  recoiled  from  so  startling  a  desertion  to 
the  Lancastrian  foe.  It  was  a  heavy  blow  to  a  heart  already 
bruised  and  sore,  when  the  fiery  Raoul  de  Fulke,  who  had  so 
idolized  Warwick  that,  despite  his  own  high  lineage,  he  had 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  541 

worn  his  badge  upon  his  breast,  sought  him  at  the  dead  of 
night,  and  thus  said: 

"Lord  of  Salisbury  and  Warwick,  I  once  offered  to  serve  thee 
as  a  vassal,  if  thou  wouldst  wrestle  with  lewd  Edward  for  the 
crown  which  only  a  manly  brow  should  wear ;  and  hadst  thou 
now  returned,  as  Henry  of  Lancaster  returned  of  old,  to  gripe 
the  sceptre  of  the  Norman  with  a  conqueror's  hand,  I  had  been 
the  first  to  cry:  'Long  live  King  Richard — namesake  and  emu- 
lator of  Cceur  de  Lion ! '  But  to  place  upon  the  throne  yon 
monk-puppet,  and  to  call  on  brave  hearts  to  worship  apatterer 
of  aves  and  a  counter  of  beads;  to  fix  the  succession  of  Eng- 
land in  the  adulterous  offspring  of  Margaret,*  the  butcher- 
harlot  ;  to  give  the  power  of  the  realm  to  the  men  against  whom 
thou  thyself  hast  often  led  me  to  strive  with  lance  and  battle- 
axe,  is  to  open  a  path  which  leads  but  to  dishonor,  and  thither 
Raoul  de  Fulke  follows  not  even  the  steps  of  the  Lord  of  War- 
wick. Interrupt  me  not — speak  not !  As  thou  to  Edward,  so 
I  now  to  thee,  forswear  allegiance,  and  I  bid  thee  farewell 
forever!" 

"I  pardon  thee,"  answered  Warwick;  "and  if  ever  thou  art 
wronged  as  I  have  been,  thy  heart  will  avenge  me.  Go!" 

But  when  this  haughty  visitor  was  gone,  the  Earl  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands,  and  groaned  aloud.  A  defection  perhaps 
even  more  severely  felt  came  next.  Katherine  de  Bonville  had 
been  the  Earl's  favorite  sister;  he  wrote  to  her  at  the  convent 
to  which  she  had  retired,  praying  her  affectionately  to  come  to 
London,  "and  cheer  his  vexed  spirit,  and  learn  the  true  cause, 
not  to  be  told  by  letter,  which  had  moved  him  to  things  once 
farthest  from  his  thought."  The  messenger  came  back — the 
tetter  unopened — for  Katherine  had  left  the  convent,  and  fled 
into  Burgundy,  distrustful,  as  it  seemed  to  Warwick,  of  her  own 
brother.  The  nature  of  this  lion-hearted  man  was,  as  we  have 
seen,  singularly  kindly,  frank,  and  affectionate;  and  now  in 
the  most  critical,  the  most  anxious,  the  most  tortured  period  of 
his  life,  confidence  and  affection  were  forbidden  to  him.  What 
had  he  not  given  for  one  hour  of  the  soothing  company  of  his 
wife,  the  only  being  in  the  world  to  whom  his  pride  could  have 
communicated  the  grief  of  his  heart,  or  the  doubts  of  his  con- 

*  One  of  the  greatest  obstacles  to  the  cause  of  the  Red  Rose  was  the  popular  belief  that 
the  young  Prince  was  not  Henry's  son.  Had  that  belief  not  been  widely  spread  and  firmly 
maintained,  the  lords  who  arbitrated  between  Henry  VI.  and  Richard  Duke  of  York,  in 
October,  1460,  could  scarcely  have  come  to  the  resolution  to  set  aside  the  Prince  of  Wales 
altogether,  to  accord  Henry  the  crown  for  his  life,  and  declare  the  Duke  of  York  his  heir. 
Ten  years  previously,  in  November,  1450,  before  the  young  Prince  was  born  or  thought  of, 
and  the  proposition  was  really  just  and  reasonable,  it  was  moved  in  the  House  of  Common* 
to  declare  Richard  Duke  of  York  next  heir  to  Henry,  which,  at  least  by  birthright,  h« 
Certainly  was  }  but  the  motion  mot  with  lilt's  favor,  and  U)«  mover  WW  sept  to  the  TgwWi 


542  THK    1    \ST    01--    THE    1JAKONS. 

science!  Alas!  never  on  earth  should  he  hear  that  soft  voice 
again !  Anne,  too,  the  gentle,  child-like  Anne,  was  afar — but 
she  was  happy — a  basker  in  the  brief  sunshine,  and  blind  to 
the  darkening  clouds.  His  elder  child,  with  her  changeful 
moods,  added  but  to  his  disquiet  and  unhappiness.  Next  to 
Edward,  Warwick  of  all  the  House  of  York  had  loved  Clar- 
ence, though  a  closer  and  more  domestic  intimacy  had  weakened 
the  affection  by  lessening  the  esteem.  But  looking  farther 
into  the  future,  he  now  saw  in  this  alliance  the  seeds  of  many  a 
rankling  sorrow.  The  nearer  Anne  and  her  spouse  to  power 
and  fame  the  more  bitter  the  jealousy  of  Clarence  and  his  wife. 
Thus,  in  the  very  connections  which  seemed  most  to  strengthen 
his  house  lay  all  which  must  destroy  the  hallowed  unity  and 
peace  of  family  and  home. 

The  Archbishop  of  York  had  prudently  taken  no  part  what- 
ever in  the  measure  that  had  changed  the  dynasty ;  he  came  now 
to  reap  the  fruits :  did  homage  to  Henry  VI.,  received  the  Chan- 
cellor's seals,  and  recommenced  intrigues  for  the  Cardinal's 
hat.  But  between  the  bold  warrior  and  the  wily  priest  there 
could  be  but  little  of  the  endearment  of  brotherly  confidence 
and  love.  With  Montagu  alone  could  the  Earl  confer  in  cor- 
diality and  unreserve ;  and  their  similar  position,  and  certain 
points  of  agreement  in  their  characters,  now  more  clearly 
brought  out  and  manifest,  served  to  make  their  friendship  for 
each  other  firmer  and  more  tender,  in  the  estrangement  of  all 
other  ties,  than  ever  it  had  been  before.  But  the  Marquis  was 
soon  compelled  to  depart  from  London,  to  his  post  as  warden  of 
the  northern  marches ;  for  Warwick  had  not  the  rash  presump- 
tion of  Edward,  and  neglected  no  precaution  against  the  re- 
turn of  the  dethroned  King. 

So  there,  alone,  in  pomp  and  in  power,  vengeance  consum- 
mated, ambition  gratified,  but  love  denied — with  an  aching 
heart  and  a  fearless  front;  amidst  old  foes  made  prosperous 
and  old  friends  alienated  and  ruined — stood  the  king-maker! 
and,  day  by  day,  the  untimely  streaks  of  gray  showed  more  and 
more  amidst  the  raven  curls  of  the  strong  man. 


CHAPTER  III. 

FARTHER    VIEWS    INTO     THE     HEART    OF    MAN,    AND    THE    CON- 
DITIONS   OF    POWER. 

BUT  woe  to  any  man  who  is  called  to  power  with  exagger- 
ated expectations  of  his  ability  to  do  good !     Woe  to  the  man 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  543 

whom  the  populace  have  esteemed  a  popular  champion,  and 
who  is  suddenly  made  the  guardian  of  law !  The  Commons  of 
England  had  not  bewailed  the  exile  of  the  good  Earl  simply 
for  love  of  his  groaning  table,  and  admiration  of  his  huge  battle- 
axe  ;  it  was  not  merely  either  in  pity,  or  from  fame,  that  his 
"name  had  sounded  in  every  song,"  and  that,  to  use  the  strong 
expression  of  the  chronicler,  the  people  "judged  that  the  sun 
was  clearly  taken  from  the  world  when  he  was  absent." 

They  knew  him  as  one  who  had  ever  sought  to  correct  the 
abuses  of  power — to  repair  the  wrongs  of  the  poor;  who,  even  in 
war,  had  forbidden  his  knights  to  siay  the  common  men.  He 
was  regarded,  therefore,  as  a  reformer;  and  wonderful,  indeed, 
were  the  things,  proportioned  to  his  fame  and  his  popularity, 
which  he  was  expected  to  accomplish  ;  and  his  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  English  character,  and  experience  of  every  class — 
especially  the  lowest  as  the  highest — conjoined  with  the  vigor 
of  his  robust  understanding,  unquestionably  enabled  him  from 
the  very  first  to  put  a  stop  to  the  lawless  violences  which  had 
disgraced  the  rule  of  Edward.  The  infamous  spoliations  of 
the  royal  purveyors  ceased;  the  robber-like  excesses  of  the 
ruder  barons  and  gentry  were  severely  punished;  the  country 
felt  that  a  strong  hand  held  the  reins  of  power.  But  what  is 
justice,  when  men  ask  miracles  !  The  peasant  and  mechanic 
were  astonished  that  wages  were  not  doubled ;  that  bread  was 
not  to  be  had  for  asking;  that  the  disparities  of  life  remained 
the  same,  the  rich  still  rich,  the  poor  still  poor.  In  the  first 
days  of  the  revolution,  Sir  Geoffrey  Gates,  the  freebooter,  little 
comprehending  the  Earl's  merciful  policy,  and  anxious  natural- 
ly to  turn  a  victory  into  its  accustomed  fruit  of  rapine  and  pil- 
lage, placed  himself  at  the  head  of  an  armed  mob,  marched  from 
Kent  to  the  suburbs  of  London,  and,  joined  by  some  of  the 
miscreants  from  the  different  Sanctuaries,  burned  and  pillaged, 
ravished  and  slew.  The  Earl  quelled  this  insurrection  with 
spirit  and  ease;*  and  great  was  the  praise  he  received  thereby. 
But  all-pervading  is  the  sympathy  the  poor  feel  for  the  poor! 
And  when  even  the  refuse  of  the  populace  once  felt  the  sword 
of  Warwick,  some  portion  of  the  popular  enthusiasm  must  have 
silently  deserted  him. 

Robert  Hilyard,  who  had  borne  so  large  a  share  in  the  resto- 
ration of  the  Lancastrians,  now  fixed  his  home  in  the  metrop- 
olis; and  anxious  as  ever  to  turn  the  current  to  the  popular 
profit,  he  saw,  with  rage  and  disappointment,  that  as  yet  no 
party  but  the  nobles  had  really  triumphed.  He  had  longed  to 

*  Hall.    Habington. 


544  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

achieve  a  revolution  that  might  be  called  the  People's;  and  he 
had  abetted  one  that  was  called  "the  Lord's  doing. "  The 
affection  he  had  felt  for  Warwick  arose  principally  from  his 
regarding  him  as  an  instrument  to  prepare  society  for  the  more 
democratic  changes  he  panted  to  effect;  and,  lo!  he  himself  had 
been  the  instrument  to  strengthen  the  aristocracy.  Society 
resettled  after  the  storm :  the  noble  retained  his  armies,  the 
demagogue  had  lost  his  mobs!  Although  through  England 
were  scattered  the  principles  which  were  ultimately  to  destroy 
feudalism — to  humble  the  fierce  barons  into  silken  lords — to 
reform  the  Church — to  ripen  into  a  commonwealth,  through 
the  representative  system — the  principles  were  but  in  the  germ; 
and  when  Hilyard  mingled  with  the  traders  or  the  artisans  of 
London,  and  sought  to  form  a  party  which  might  comprehend 
something  of  steady  policy  and  definite  object,  he  found  him- 
self regarded  as  a  visionary  fanatic  by  some,  as  a  dangerous 
dare-devil  by  the  rest.  Strange  to  say,  Warwick  was  the  only 
man  who  listened  to  him  with  attention ;  the  man  behind  the 
age,  and  the  man  before  the  age,  ever  have  some  inch  of 
ground  in  common :  both  desired  to  increase  liberty ;  both 
honestly  and  ardently  loved  the  masses;  but  each  in  the  spirit 
of  his  order :  Warwick  defended  freedom  as  against  the  throne, 
Hilyard  as  against  the  barons.  Still,  notwithstanding  their 
differences,  each  was  so  convinced  of  the  integrity  of  the  other, 
that  it  wanted  only  a  foe  in  the  field  to  unite  them  as  before.  The 
natural  ally  of  the  popular  baron  was  the  leader  of  the  populace. 

Some  minor,  but  still  serious,  griefs  added  to  the  embarrass- 
ment of  the  Earl's  position.  Margaret's  jealousy  had  bound 
him  to  defer  all  rewards  to  lords  and  others,  and  encumbeved 
with  a  provisional  council  all  great  acts  of  government,  all 
grants  of  offices,  lands,  or  benefits.*  And  who  knows  not  the 
expectations  of  men  after  a  successful  revolution !  The  royal 
exchequer  was  so  empty,  that  even  the  ordinary  household  was 
suspended;!  and  as  ready  money  was  then  prodigiously  scarce, 
the  mighty  revenues  of  WTarwick  barely  sufficed  to  pay  the  ex- 
penses of  the  expedition,  which,  at  his  own  cost,  had  restored 
the  Lancastrian  line.  Hard  position,  both  to  generosity  and 
to  prudence,  to  put  off  and  apologize  to  just  claims  and  valiant 
service! 

With  intense,  wearying,  tortured  anxiety,  did  the  Earl  await 
the  coming  of  Margaret  and  her  son.  The  conditions  imposed 
on  him  in  their  absence  crippled  all  his  resources.  Several 

•  Sharon  Turner. 

t  Sec  Ellis's  "  Original  Jitters,"  ham  #arj?ian  MS?.,  K«ond  scries,  vol.  i,,  letter  491 


1'HE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  545 

even  of  the  Lancastrian  nobles  held  aloof,  while  they  saw  no 
authority  but  Warwick's.  Above  all,  he  relied  upon  the  effect 
that  the  young  Prince  of  Wales's  presence,  his  beauty,  his  gra- 
ciousness,  his  frank  spirit — mild  as  his  father's,  bold  as  his 
grandsire's — would  create  upon  all  that  inert  and  neutral  mass 
of  the  public,  the  affection  of  which,  once  gained,  makes  the 
solid  strength  of  a  government.  The  very  appearance  of  that 
Prince  would  at  once  dispel  the  slander  on  his  birth.  His  re- 
semblance to  his  heroic  grandfather  would  suffice  to  win  him 
all  the  hearts  by  which,  in  absence,  he  was  regarded  as  a  stran- 
ger, a  dubious  alien.  How  often  did  the  Earl  groan  forth: 
"If  the  Prince  were  but  here,  all  were  won!"  Henry  was 
worse  than  a  cipher — he  was  an  eternal  embarrassment.  His 
good  intentions,  his  scrupulous  piety,  made  him  ever  ready  to 
interfere.  The  Church  had  got  hold  of  him  already,  and 
prompted  him  to  issue  proclamations  against  the  disguised  Lol- 
lards, which  would  have  lost  him,  at  one  stroke,  half  his  sub- 
jects. This  Warwick  prevented,  to  the  great  discontent  of  the 
honest  Prince.  The  moment  required  all  the  prestige  that  an 
imposing  presence  and  a  splendid  court  could  bestow.  And 
Henry,  glad  of  the  poverty  of  his  exchequer,  deemed  it  a  sin  to 
make  a  parade  of  earthly  glory.  "Heaven  will  punish  me 
again,"  said  he  meekly,  "if,  just  delivered  from  a  dungeon,  I 
gild  my  unworthy  self  with  all  the  vanities  of  perishable 
power." 

There  was  not  a  department  which  the  chill  of  this  poor  King's 
virtue  did  not  somewhat  benumb.  The  gay  youths,  who  had 
revelled  in  the  alluring  court  of  Edward  IV.,  heard,  with  dis- 
dainful mockery,  the  grave  lectures  of  Henry  on  the  length  of 
their  lovelocks  and  the  beakers  of  their  shoes.  The  brave  war- 
riors presented  to  him  for  praise  were  entertained  with  homilies 
on  the  guilt  of  war.  Even,  poor  Adam  was  molested  and  in- 
vaded by  Henry's  pious  apprehensions  that  he  was  seeking,  by 
vain  knowledge,  to  be  superior  to  the  will  of  Providence. 

Yet,  albeit  perpetually  irritating  and  chafing  the  impetuous 
spirit  of  the  Earl,  the  Earl  strange  to  say,  loved  the  King  more 
and  more.  This  perfect  innocence,  this  absence  from  guile  and 
self-seeking,  in  the  midst  of  an  age  never  excelled  for  fraud, 
falsehood,  and  selfish  simulation,  moved  Warwick's  admiration 
as  well  as  pity.  Whatever  contrasted  Edward  IV.  had  a  charm 
for  him.  He  schooled  his  hot  temper,  and  softened  his  deep 
voice,  in  that  holy  presence;  and  the  intimate  persuasion  of 
the  hollowness  of  all  worldly  greatness,  which  worldly  greatness 
itself  had  forced  upon  the  Earl's  mind,  made  something  congenial 


546  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

voen  th'j  incx'k  saint  and  the  fiery  warrior.     For  the  hull- 
ui-.-i.lth  time  groaned  Warwick,  as  he  quitted  Henry's  presence: 

"Would  that  my  gallant  son-in-law  were  come!  His  spirit 
will  soon  learn  how  to  govern,  then  Warwick  may  be  needed  no 
more!  I  am  weary — sore  weary  of  the  task  of  ruling  men!" 

"Holy  St.  Thomas!"  bluntly  exclaimed  Marmaduke,  to  whom 
these  sad  words  were  said — "whenever  you  visit  the  King,  you 
come  back — pardon  me,  my  lord — half  unmanned.  He  would 
make  a  monk  of  you  ! " 

"Ah"  said  Warwick  thoughtfully,  "there  have  been  greater 
marvels  than  that.  Our  boldest  fathers  often  died  the  meekest 
shavelings.  An'  I  had  ruled  this  realm  as  long  as  Henry — 
nay,  an'  this  same  life  I  lead  now  were  to  continue  two  years, 
with  its  broil  and  fever,  I  could  well  conceive  the  sweetness  of 
the  cloister  and  repose.  How  sits  the  wind?  Against  them 
still — against  them  still!  I  cannot  bear  this  suspense!" 

The  winds  had  ever  seemed  malignant  to  Margaret  of  Anjou. 
but  never  more  than  now.  So  long  a  continuance  of  stormy 
and  adverse  weather  was  never  known  in  the  memory  of  man ; 
and  we  believe  that  it  has  scarcely  its  parallel  in  history. 

The  Earl's  promise  to  restore  King  Henry  was  fulfilled  in 
October.  From  November  to  the  following  April,  Margaret 
with  the  young  and  royal  pair,  and  the  Countess  of  Warwick,  lay 
at  the  seaside,  waiting  for  a  wind.*  Thrice,  in  defiance  of 
all  waj  rJngs  from  the  mariners  of  Harfleur  did  she  put  to  sea, 
and  thrice  was  she  driven  back  on  the  coast  of  Normandy — her 
ships  much  damaged.  Her  friends  protested  that  this  malice 
of  the  elements  was  caused  by  sorcery  f — a  belief  which  gained 
ground  in  England,  exhilarated  the  Duchess  of  Bedford,  and 
gave  new  fame  to  Bungey  who  arrogated  all  the  merit,  and 
whose  weather  wisdom,  indeed,  had  here  borne  out  his  predic- 
tions. Many  besought  Margaret  not  to  tempt  Providence,  nor 
to  trust  the  sea;  but  the  Queen  was  firm  to  her  purpose,  and 
her  son  laughed  at  omens — yet  still  the  vessels  could  only  leave 
the  harbor  to  be  driven  back  upon  the  land. 

Day  after  day  the  first  question  of  Warwick,  when  the  sun 
rose,  was,  "How  sets  the  wind?"  Night  after  night,  ere  he 
retired  to  rest :  "  111  sets  the  wind  !  "  sighed  the  Earl.  The 
gales,  that  forbade  the  coming  of  the  royal  party,  sped  to  the 
unwilling  lingerers  courier  after  courier,  envoy  after  envoy, 
and  at  length  Warwick,  unable  to  bear  the  sickening  suspense 
at  distance,  went  himself  to  Dover,J  and  from  its  white  cliffs 
looked,  hour  by  hour,  for  the  sails  which  were  to  bear  "  Lan- 

*  Fabvan  503.  t  Hall.    "  Warkworth  Chronicle."  J  Hall. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  547 

caster  and  its  fortunes."  The  actual  watch  grew  more  intoler- 
able than  the  distant  expectation,  and  the  Earl  sorrowfully 
departed  to  his  castle  of  Warwick,  at  which  Isabel  and  Clarence 
then  were.  Alas  !  where  the  old  smile  of  home  ? 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    RETURN    OF    EDWARD    OF    YORK. 

AND  the  winds  still  blew,  and  storm  was  on  the  tide,  and 
Margaret  came  not ;  when,  in  the  gusty  month  of  March,  the 
fishermen  of  the  Humber  beheld  a  single  ship,  without  flag  or 
pennon,  and  sorely  stripped  and  rivelled  by  adverse  blasts, 
gallantly  struggling  towards  the  shore.  The  vessel  was  not  of 
English  build,  and  resembled,  in  its  bulk  and  fashion,  those 
employed  by  the  Easterlings  in  their  trade — half  merchantman, 
half  war-ship. 

The  villagers  of  Ravenspur — the  creek  of  which  the  vessel 
now  rapidly  made  to — imagining  that  it  was  some  trading  craft 
in  distress,  grouped  round  the  banks,  and  some  put  out  their 
boats.  But  the  vessel  held  on  its  way,  and  as  the  water  was 
swelled  by  the  tide,  and  unusually  deep,  silently  cast  anchor 
close  ashore,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  crowd. 

The  first  who  leapt  on  land  was  a  knight  of  lofty  stature, 
and  in  complete  armor,  richly  inlaid  with  gold  arabesques.  To 
him  succeeded  another,  also  in  mail,  and,  though  well-built  and 
fair  proportioned,  of  less  imposing  presence.  And  then,  one 
by  one,  the  womb  of  the  dark  ship  gave  forth  a  number  of 
armed  soldiers,  infinitely  larger  than  it  could  have  been  sup- 
posed to  contain,  till  the  knight  who  first  landed  stood  the 
centre  of  a  group  of  five  hundred  men.  Then,  were  lowered 
from  the  vessel,  barbed  and  caparisoned,  some  five  score  horses; 
and,  finally,  the  sailors  and  rowers,  armed  but  with  steel  caps  and 
short  swords,  came  on  shore,  till  not  a  man  was  left  on  board. 

"  Now  praise,"  said  the  chief  knight,  "  to  God  and  St.  George, 
that  we  have  escaped  the  water !  and  not  with  invisible  winds, 
but  with  bodily  foes,  must  our  war  be  waged." 

" Beau  sire"  cried  one  knight,  who  had  debarked  imme- 
diately after  the  speaker,  and  who  seemed,  from  his  bearing 
and  equipment,  of  higher  rank  than  those  that  followed — ''''beau 
sire,  this  is  a  slight  army  to  conquer  a  king's  realm!  Pray 
Heaven,  that  our  bold  companions  have  also  escaped  the  deep  !" 

"  Why  verily,  we  are  not  eno',  at  the  best,  to  spare  one  man," 
said  the  chief  knight  gayly,  ''  but  lo !  we  are  not  without  wel- 


548  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

comers."  And  he  pointed  to  the  crowd  of  villagers  who  now 
slowly  m-ared  the  warlike  group,  but  halting  at  a  little  distance, 
continued  to  gaze  at  them  in  some  anxiety  and  alarm. 

"  Ho  there  !  good  fellows  ! "  cried  the  leader,  striding  to- 
wards the  throng,  "what  name  give  you  to  this  village?" 

"  Ravenspur,  please  your  worship,"  answered  one  of  the 
peasants. 

"  Ravenspur — hear  you  that,  lords  and  friends  ?  Accept  the 
omen  !  On  this  spot  landed,  from  exile,  Henry  of  Bolingbroke, 
known  afterwards  in  our  annals  as  King  Henry  IV.  !  Bare  is 
the  soil  of  corn  and  of  trees — it  disdains  meaner  fruit ;  it 
groit'S  kings  !  Hark  !"  The  sound  of  a  bugle  was  heard  at  a 
little  distance,  and  in  a  few  moments  a  troop  of  about  a  hun- 
dred men  were  seen  rising  above  an  undulation  in  the  groundv 
and  as  the  two  bands  recognized  each  other,  a  shout  of  joy 
was  given  and  returned. 

As  this  new  reinforcement  advanced,  the  peasantry  and 
fishermen,  attracted  by  curiosity  and  encouraged  by  the  peace- 
able demeanor  of  the  debarkers,  drew  nearer,  and  mingled 
with  the  first  comers. 

"  What  manner  of  men  be  ye,  and  what  want  ye  ? "  asked 
one  of  the  bystanders,  who  seemed  of  better  nurturing  than 
the  rest,  and  who,  indeed,  was  a  small  franklin. 

No  answer  was  returned  by  those  he  more  immediately 
addressed,  but  the  chief  knight  heard  the  question,  and  sud- 
denly unbuckling  his  helmet,  and  giving  it  to  one  of  those 
beside  him,  he  turned  to  the  crowd  a  countenance  of  singular 
beauty,  at  once  animated  and  majestic,  and  said  in  a  loud 
voice  :  "  We  are  Englishmen,  like  you,  and  we  come  here  to 
claim  our  rights.  Ye  seem  tall  fellows  and  honest.  Standard- 
bearer,  unfurl  our  flag !  "  And,  as  the  ensign  suddenly  dis- 
played the  device  of  a  sun,  in  a  field  azure,  the  chief  con- 
tinued :  "March  under  this  banner,  and  for  every  day  ye  serve 
ye  shall  have  a  month's  hire." 

"  Marry  ! "  quoth  the  franklin,  with  a  suspicious,  sinister 
look,  "  these  be  big  words.  And  who  are  you,  sir  knight,  who 
would  levy  men  in  King  Henry's  kingdom  ?" 

"  Your  knees,  fellows  !  "  cried  the  second  knight.  "  Behold 
your  true  liege  and  suzerain,  Edward  IV. !  Long  live  King 
Edward  ! " 

The  soldiers  caught  up  the  cry,  and  it  was  re-echoed  lustily 
by  the  smaller  detachment  that  now  reached  the  spot  ;  but  no 
answer  came  from  the  crowd.  They  looked  at  each  other  in 
dismay,  and  retreated  rapidly  from  their  place  amongst  the 


THE   LASt    OF   THE    BARONS.  549 

troops.  In  fact,  the  whole  of  the  neighboring  district  was 
devoted  to  Warwick,  and  many  of  the  peasantry  about  had 
joined  the  former  rising  under  Sir  John  Coniers.  The  franklin 
alone  retreated  not  with  the  rest ;  he  was  a  bluff,  plain,  bold 
fellow,  with  good  English  blood  in  his  veins.  And  when  the 
shout  ceased,  he  said  shortly  :  "We,  hereabouts,  know  no  king 
but  King  Henry.  We  fear  you  would  impose  upon  us.  We 
cannot  believe  that  a  great  lord  like  him  you  call  Edward  IV. 
would  land,  with  a  handful  of  men,  to  encounter  the  armies  of 
Lord  Warwick.  We  forewarn  you  to  get  into  your  ship,  and 
go  back  as  fast  as  ye  came,  for  the  stomach  of  England  is  sick 
of  brawls  and  blows  ;  and  what  ye  devise  is  treason  !  " 

Forth  from  the  new  detachment  stepped  a  youth  of  small 
stature,  not  in  armor,  and  with  many  a  weather-stain  on  his 
gorgeous  dress.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  franklin's  shoulder  : 
"Honest  and  plain-dealing  fellow,"  said  he,  "you  are  right: 
pardon  the  foolish  outburst  of  these  brave  men,  who  cannot 
forget  as  yet  that  their  chief  has  worn  the  crown.  We  come 
back  not  to  disturb  this  realm,  nor  to  affect  aught  against 
King  Henry,  whom  the  saints  have  favored.  No  by  St.  Paul, 
we  come  but  back  to  claim  our  lands  unjustly  forfeit.  My 
noble  brother  here  is  not  King  of  England,  since  the  people 
will  it  not,  but  he  is  Duke  of  York,  and  he  will  be  contented  if 
assured  of  the  style  and  lands  our  father  left  him.  For  me, 
called  Richard  of  Gloucester,  I  ask  nothing,  but  leave  to  spend 
my  manhood  where  I  have  spent  my  youth,  under  the  eyes  of 
my  renowned  godfather,  Richard  Nevile,  Earl  of  Warwick.  So 
report  of  us.  Whither  leads  yon  road  ?" 

"  To  York,"  said  the  franklin,  softened,  despite  his  judg- 
ment, by  the  irresistible  suavity  of  the  voice  that  addressed  him. 

"  Thither  will  we  go,  my  lord  duke  and  brother,  with  your 
leave,"  said  Prince  Richard,  "  peaceably,  and  as  petitioners. 
God  save  ye,  friends  and  countrymen,  pray  for  us,  that  King 
Henry  and  the  Parliament  may  do  us  justice.  We  are  not 
over  rich  now,  but  better  times  may  come.  Largess  ! "  and 
filling  both  hands  with  coins  from  his  gipsire,  he  tossed  the 
bounty  among  the  peasants. 

"  Mille  tonnere!  What  means  he  with  this  humble  talk  of 
King  Henry  and  the  Parliament  ?  "  whispered  Edward  to  the 
Lord  Say,  while  the  crowd  scrambled  for  the  largess,  and 
Richard  smilingly  mingled  amongst  them,  and  conferred  with 
the  franklin. 

"  Let  him  alone,  I  pray  you,  my  liege  ;  I  guess  his  wise  de- 
sign. And  now  for  our  ships.  What  orders  for  the  master  *' 


550  THE    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

"  For  the  other  vessels  let  them  sail  or  anchor  as  they  list. 
But  for  the  bark  that  has  borne  Edward  King  of  England  to 
the  land  of  his  ancestors,  there  is  no  return  !  " 

The  royal  adventurer  then  beckoned  the  Flemish  master  of 
the  ship,  who,  with  every  sailor  aboard,  had  debarked,  and  the 
loose  dresses  of  the  mariners  made  a  strong  contrast  to  the 
mail  of  the  warriors  with  whom  they  mingled. 

"  Friend  !  "  said  Edward,  in  French,  "  thou  hast  said  that 
thou  wilt  share  my  fortunes,  and  that  thy  good  fellows  are  no 
less  free  of  courage  and  leal  in  trust." 

"  It  is  so,  sire.  Not  a  man  who  has  gazed  on  thy  face,  and 
heard  thy  voice,  but  longs  to  serve  one  on  whose  brow  Nature 
has  written  king." 

"  And  trust  me,"  said  Edward,  "  no  prince  of  my  blood 
shall  be  dearer  to  me  than  you  and  yours,  my  friends  in  danger 
and  in  need.  And  sith  it  be  so,  the  ship  that  hath  borne  such 
hearts  and  such  hopes  should,  in  sooth,  know  no  meaner  freight. 
Is  all  prepared?" 

"  Yes,  sire,  as  you  ordered.  The  train  is  laid  for  the  brennen." 

"  Up,  then,  with  the  fiery  signal,  and  let  it  tell,  from  cliff  to 
cliff,  from  town  to  town,  that  Edward  the  Plantagenet,  once 
returned  to  England,  leaves  it  but  for  the  grave  !  " 

The  master  bowed,  and  smiled  grimly.  The  sailors,  who 
had  been  prepared  for  the  burning,  arranged  before  between  the 
master  and  the  prince,  and  whose  careless  hearts  Edward  had 
thoroughly  won  to  his  person  and  his  cause,  followed  the 
former  towards  the  ship,  and  stood  silently  grouped  around 
the  shore.  The  soldiers,  less  informed,  gazed  idly  on,  and 
Richard  now  regained  Edward's  side. 

"  Reflect,"  he  said,  as  he  drew  him  apart,  "  that  when  on  this 
spot  landed  Henry  of  Bolingbroke,  he  gave  not  out  that  he  was 
marching  to  the  throne  of  Richard  II.  He  professed  but  to 
claim  his  duchy — and  men  were  influenced  by  justice,  till  they 
became  agents  of  ambition.  This  be  your  policy:  with  two 
thousand  men  you  are  but  Duke  of  York;  with  ten  thousand 
men  you  are  King  of  England  !  In  passing  hither,  I  met  with 
many,  and  sounding  the  temper  of  the  district,  I  find  it  not 
ripe  to  share  your  hazard.  The  world  soon  ripens  when  it 
hath  to  hail  success  !  " 

"  Q  young  boy's  smooth  face  !  O  old  man's  deep  brain  !  " 
said  Edward  admiringly,  "what  a  king  hadst  thou  made  !  " 

A  sudden  flush  passed  over  the  Prince's  pale  cheek,  and, 
ere  it  died  away,  a  flaming  torch  was  hurled  aloft  in  the  air — 
it  fell  whirling  into  the  ship — a  moment,  and  a  loud  crash — 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  5$  t 

a  moment,  and  a  mighty  blaze  !     Up  sprung  from  the  deck 
along  the  sails,  the  sheeted  fire — 

"  A  giant  beard  of  flame."* 

It  reddened  the  coast — the  skies  from  far  and  near ;  it  glowed 
on  the  faces  and  the  steel  of  the  scanty  army  ;  it  was  seen  miles 
away,  by  the  warders  of  many  a  castle  manned  with  the  troops 
of  Lancaster ;  it  brought  the  steed  from  the  stall,  the  courtier 
to  the  selle  ;  it  sped,  as  of  old  the  beacon  fire  that  announced 
to  Clytemnestra  the  return  of  the  Argive  King.  From  post  to 
post  rode  the  fiery  news,  till  it  reached  Lord  Warwick  in  his 
hall,  King  Henry  in  his  palace,  Elizabeth  in  her  sanctuary. 
The  iron  step  of  the  dauntless  Edward  was  once  more  pressed 
upon  the  soil  of  England. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  THE.  PLANTAGENET. 

A  FEW  words  suffice  to  explain  the  formidable  arrival  we 
have  just  announced.  Though  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  had,  by 
public  proclamation,  forbidden  his  subjects  to  aid  the  exiled 
Edward  ;  yet,  whether  moved  by  the  entreaties  of  his  wife,  or 
wearied  by  the  remonstrances  of  his  brother-in-law,  he  at 
length  privately  gave  the  dethroned  monarch  50,000  florins  to 
find  troops  for  himself,  and  secretly  hired  Flemish  and  Dutch 
vessels  to  convey  him  to  England. f  But,  so  small  was  the 
force  to  which  the  bold  Edward  trusted  his  fortunes,  that  it 
almost  seemed  as  if  Burgundy  sent  him  forth  to  his  destruction. 
He  sailed  from  the  coast  of  Zealand  ;  the  winds,  if  less  un- 
manageable than  those  that  blew  off  the  seaport  where  Mar- 
garet and  her  armament  awaited  a  favorable  breeze,  were  still 
adverse.  Scared  from  the  coast  of  Norfolk  by  the  vigilance  of 
Warwick  and  Oxford,  who  had  filled  that  district  with  armed 
men,  storm  and  tempest  drove  him  at  last  to  Humber  Head, 
where  we  have  seen  him  land,  and  whence  we  pursue  his  steps. 

The  little  band  set  out  upon  its  march,  and  halted  for  the 
night  at  a  small  village  two  miles  inland.  Some  of  the  men 
were  then  sent  out  on  horseback,  for  news  of  the  other  vessels, 
that  bore  the  remnant  of  the  invading  force.  These  had,  for- 
tunately, effected  a  landing  in  various  places  ;  and,  before  day- 
break, Anthony  Woodville,  and  the  rest  of  the  troops,  had 
joined  the  leader  of  an  enterprise  that  seemed  but  the  rashness 

*<Woyof  ficyav  Trwywva.  — vEsch.  Agant.,  314. 
t  Gamines.     Hall.     Lingard.     S.  Turner, 


552  THE  LAST  OF  THK  HARONS. 

of  despair,  for  its  utmost  force,  including  the  few  sailors  allured 
to  the  adventurer's  standard,  was  about  two  thousand  men.* 
Close  and  anxious  was  the  consultation  then  held.  Each  of 
the  several  detachments  reported  alike  of  the  sullen  indiffer- 
ence of  the  population,  which  each  had  sought  to  excite  in 
favor  of  Edward.  Light  riders  f  were  dispatched  in  various 
directions,  still  farther  to  sound  the  neighborhood.  All  re- 
turned ere  noon,  some  bruised  and  maltreated  by  the  stones 
and  staves  of  the  rustics,  and  not  a  voice  had  been  heard  to 
echo  the  cry:  "Long  live  King  Edward!"  The  profound 
sagacity  of  Gloucester's  guileful  counsel  was  then  unanimously 
recognized.  Richard  dispatched  a  secret  letter  to  Clarence  ; 
and  it  was  resolved  immediately  to  proceed  to  York,  and  to 
publish  everywhere  along  the  road  that  the  fugitive  had  re- 
turned but  to  claim  his  private  heritage,  and  remonstrate 
with  the  Parliament  which  had  awarded  the  Duchy  of  York  to 
Clarence,  his  younger  brother. 

"  Such  a  power,"  saith  the  Chronicle, "  hath  justice  ever  among 
men,  that  all,  moved  by  mercy  or  compassion,  began  either  to 
favor  or  not  to  resist  him."  And  so,  wearing  the  Lancastrian 
Prince  of  Wales's  cognizance  of  the  ostrich  feather,  crying  out 
as  they  marched  :  "  Long  live  King  Henry,"  the  hardy  liars, 
four  days  after  their  debarkation,  arrived  at  the  gates  of  York. 

Here,  not  till  after  much  delay  and  negotiation,  Edward  was 
admitted  only  as  Duke  of  York,  and  upon  condition  that  he 
would  swear  to  be  a  faithful  and  loyal  servant  to  King  Henry  ; 
and  at  the  gate  by  which  he  was  to  enter,  Edward  actually 
took  that  oath,  "  a  priest  being  bye  to  say  mass  in  the  mass 
tyme,  receiving  the  body  of  our  blessed  Saviour !  "J 

Edward  tarried  not  long  in  York  ;  he  pushed  forward.  Two 
great  nobles  guarded  those  districts — Montagu,  and  the  Earl 
of  Northumberland,  to  whom  Edward  had  restored  his  lands 
and  titles,  and  who,  on  condition  of  retaining  them,  had  re- 
entered  the  service  of  Lancaster.  This  last,  a  true  server  of 
the  times,  who  had  sided  with  all  parties,  now  judged  it  dis- 
creet to  remain  neutral. §  But  Edward  must  pass  within  a  few 
miles  of  Pontefract  Castle,  where  Montagu  lay  with  a  force 
that  could  destroy  him  at  a  blow.  Edward  was  prepared  for 
the  assault,  but  trusted  to  deceive  the  Marquis,  as  he  had  de- 
ceived the  citizens  of  York  ;  the  more  for  the  strong  personal 
love  Montagu  had  ever  shown  him.  If  not,  he  was  prepared 

*  Fifteen  hundred,  according  to  the  Croyland  historian.  t  Hall.  $  Hall. 

§  This  is  the  most  favorable  interpretation  of  his  conduct  ;  according  to  some  he  was  in 
correspondence  with  Edward,  who  showed  his  letters. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  553 

equally  to  die  in  the  field,  rather  than  eat  again  the  bitter  bread 
of  the  exile.  But  to  his  inconceivable  joy  and  astonishment, 
Montagu,  like  Northumberland,  lay  idle  and  supine.  Edward 
and  his  little  troop  threaded  safely  the  formidable  pass.  Alas  ! 
Montagu  had  that  day  received  a  formal  order  from  the  Duke 
of  Clarence,  as  co-protector  of  the  realm,*  to  suffer  Edward  to 
march  on,  provided  his  force  was  small,  and  he  had  taken  the 
oaths  to  Henry,  and  assumed  but  the  title  of  Duke  of  York, 
"  for  your  brother  the  Earl  hath  had  compunctious  visitings, 
and  would  fain  forgive  what  hath  passed,  for  my  father's  sake, 
and  unite  all  factions  by  Edward's  voluntary  abdication  of  the 
throne — at  all  hazards,  I  am  on  my  way  northward,  and  you 
will  not  fight  till  I  come."  The  Marquis,  who  knew  the  con- 
scientious doubts  which  Warwick  had  entertained  in  his  darker 
hours,  who  had  no  right  to  disobey  the  co-protector,  who  knew 
no  reason  to  suspect  Lord  Warwick's  son-in-law,  and  who, 
moreover,  was  by  no  means  anxious  to  be,  himself,  the  execu- 
tioner of  Edward  whom  he  had  once  so  truly  loved,  though  a 
little  marvelling  at  Warwick's  softness,  yet  did  not  discredit 
the  letter,  and  the  less  regarded  the  free  passage  he  left  to  the 
returned  exiles,  from  contempt  for  the  smallness  of  their  num- 
bers, and  his  persuasion  that  if  the  Earl  saw  fit  to  alter  his 
counsels,  Edward  was  still  more  in  his  power  the  farther  he 
advanced  amidst  a  hostile  population,  and  towards  the  armies 
which  the  Lords  Exeter  and  Oxford  were  already  mustering. 

But  that  free  passage  was  everything  to  Edward  !  It  made 
men  think  that  Montagu,  as  well  as  Northumberland,  favored 
his  enterprise  ;  that  the  hazard  was  less  rash  and  hopeless  than 
it  had  seemed  ;  that  Edward  counted  upon  finding  his  most 
powerful  allies  among  those  falsely  supposed  to  be  his  enemies. 
The  popularity  Edward  had  artfully  acquired  amongst  the  cap- 
tains of  Warwick's  own  troops,  on  the  march  to  Middleham, 
now  bested  him.  Many  of  them  were  knights  and  gentlemen 
residing  in  the  very  districts  through  which  he  passed.  They 
did  not  join  him,  but  they  did  not  oppose.  Then,  rapidly 

*  Our  historians  have  puzzled  their  brains  in  Ingenious  conjectures  of  the  cause  of  Mon- 
tagu's fatal  supineness  at  this  juncture,  and  have  passed  over  the  only  probable  solution  of 
the  mystery,  which  is  to  be  found  simply  enough  stated  thus  in  Stowe's  Chronicle  :  "  The 
Marquess  Montacute  would  have  fought  with  King  Edward,  but  that  he  had  received  let- 
ters from  the  Duke  of  Clarence  that  he  should  not  fi>>ht  till  hee  came."  This  explana- 
tion is  borne  out  by  the  Warkworth  Chronicler  and  others,  who,  in  an  evident  mistake  of 
the  person  addressed,  state  that  Clarence  wrote  word  to  Warwick  not  to  fight  till  he  came. 
Clarence  could  not  have  written  so  to  Warwick,  who,  according  to  all  authorities,  was  mus- 
tering his  troops  near  London,  and  not  in  the  way  to  fight  Edward  ;  nor  could  Clarence 
h?ve  had  authority  to  issue  such  commands  to  his  colleague,  nor  would  his  colleague  have 
attended  to  them,  since  we  have  the  amplest  testimony  that  Warwick  was  urging  all  his 
captains  to  attack  Edward  at  once.  The  Duke's  order  was.  therefore,  clearly  addressed  19 
Montagu. 


554  THE    LAST    OI     'llfl     KARONS. 

flocked  to  "  the  Sun  of  York," — first,  the  adventurers  and  con- 
dottier!,  who  in  civil  wnr  adopt  any  side  for  pay  ;  next  came 
the  disappointed,  the  ambitious,  and  the  needy.  The  hesitat- 
ing began  to  resolve,  the  neutral  to  take  a  part.  From  the 
state  of  petitioners  supplicating  a  pardon,  every  league  the  York- 
ists marched  advanced  them  to  the  dignity  of  assertors  of  a 
cause.  Doncanter  first,  then  Nottingham,  then  Leicester — true 
to  the  town  spirit  we  have  before  described — opened  their 
gates  to  the  trader  prince. 

Oxford  and  Exeter  reached  Newark  with  their  force.  Ed- 
ward marched  on  them  at  once.  Deceived  as  to  his  numbers, 
they  took  panic  and  fled.  When  once  the  foe  flies,  friends 
ever  start  up  from  the  very  earth  !  Hereditary  partisans — 
gentlemen,  knights,  and  nobles — now  flocked  fast  round  the  ad- 
venturer. Then  came  Lovell,  and  Cromwell,  and  D'Eyncourt, 
ever  true  to  York  ;  and  Stanley,  never  true  to  any  cause.  Thev\ 
came  the  brave  knights  Parr  and  Norris  and  De  Burgh  ;  and 
no  less  than  three  thousand  retainers  belonging  to  Lord  Hast- 
ings— the  new  man — obeyed  tne  summons  of  his  couriers  and 
joined  their  chief  at  Leicester. 

Edward  of  March,  who  had  landed  at  Ravenspur  with  a 
handful  of  brigands,  now  saw  a  king's  army  under  his  banner.* 
Then,  the  audacious  perjurer  threw  away  the  mask  ;  then,  forth 
went — not  the  prayer  of  the  attainted  Duke  of  York — but  the 
proclamation  of  the  indignant  King.  England  now  beheld  two 
sovereigns,  equal  in  their  armies.  It  was  no  longer  a  rebellion 
to  be  crushed  ;  it  was  a  dynasty  to  be  decided. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LORD     WARWICK,    WITH     THE     FOE     IN     THE     FIELD    AND     THE 
TRAITOR    AT    THE    HEARTH. 

EVERY  precaution  which  human  wisdom  could  foresee  had 
Lord  Warwick  taken  to  guard  against  invasion,  or  to  crush  it 
at  the  onset.f  All  the  coasts  on  which  it  was  most  probable 

*  The  perplexity  and  confusion  which  involve  the  annals  of  this  period  may  be  guessed 
by  this — that  two  historians,  eminent  for  research,  (Lingard  and  Sharon  Turner),  differ  so 
widely  as  to  the  numbers  who  had  now  joined  Edward,  that  Lingard  asserts  that  at  Not- 
tingham he  was  at  the  head  of  fifty  or  sixty  thousand  men  ;  and  Turner  gives  him  at  the 
most,  between  six  and  seven  thousand.  The  latter  seems  nearer  to  the  truth.  We  must 
here  regret,  that  Turner's  partiality  to  the  Htase  of  York  induces  him  to  slur  over  Ed- 
ward's detestable  perjury  at  York,  and  to  accumulate  all  rhetorical  arts  to  command  admir- 
ation for  his  progress — to  the  prejudice  of  the  salutary  moral  horror  we  ought  to  feel  for 
the  atrocious  perfidy  and  violation  of  oath  to  which  he  owed  the  first  impunity  that  se- 
cured the  after  triumph, 

tHall, 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  555 

Edward  would  land  had  been  strongly  guarded.  And  if  the 
Humber  had  been  left  without  regular  troops,  it  was  because 
prudence  might  calculate  that  the  very  spot  where  Edward  did 
land  was  the  very  last  he  would  have  selected — unless  guided 
by  fate  to  his  destruction — in  the  midst  of  an  unfriendly  popu- 
lation, and  in  face  of  the  armies  of  Northumberland  and  of 
Montagu.  The  moment  the  Earl  heard  of  Edward's  reception 
at  York — far  from  the  weakness  which  the  false  Clarence  (al- 
ready in  correspondence  with  Gloucester)  imputed  to  him,  he 
dispatched  to  Montagu,  by  Marmaduke  Nevile,  peremptory 
orders  to  intercept  Edward's  path,  and  give  him  battle  before 
he  could  advance  farther  towards  the  centre  of  the  island.  We 
shall  explain  presently  why  this  messenger  did  not  reach  the 
Marquis.  But  Clarence  was  some  hours  before  him  in  his 
intelligence  and  his  measures. 

When  the  Earl  next  heard  that  Edward  had  passed  Ponte- 
fract  with  impunity,  and  had  reached  Doncaster,  he  flew  first  to 
London,  to  arrange  for  its  defence ;  consigned  the  care  of  Henry 
to  the  Archbishop  of  York,  mustered  a  force  already  quartered  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  metropolis,  and  then  marched  rapidly 
back  towards  Coventry,  where  he  had  left  Clarence  with  seven 
thousand  men;  while  he  despatched  new  messengers  to  Mon- 
tagu and  Northumberland  severely  rebuking  the  former  for  his 
supineness,  and  ordering  him  to  march  in  all  haste  to  attack 
Edward  in  the  rear.  The  Earl's  activity,  promptitude,  and 
all-provident  generalship  form  a  mournful  contrast  to  the 
errors,  the  pusillanimity,  and  the  treachery  of  others,  which 
hitherto,  as  we  have  seen,  made  all  his  wisest  schemes  abortive. 
Despite  Clarence's  sullenness,  Warwick  had  discovered  no 
reason,  as  yet,  to  doubt  his  good  faith.  The  oath  he  had  taken, 
not  only  to  Henry,  in  London,  but  to  Warwick,  at  Amboise,  had 
been  the  strongest  which  can  bind  man  to  man.  If  the  Duke  had 
not  gained  all  he  had  hoped,  he  had  still  much  to  lose  and  much 
to  dread  by  desertion  to  Edward.  He  had  been  the  loudest  in 
bold  assertions  when  he  heard  of  the  invasion;  and  above  all,  Isa- 
bel, whose  influence  over  Clarence,  at  that  time,  the  Earl  over- 
rated, had,  at  the  tidings  of  so  imminent  a  danger  to  her  father, 
forgot  all  her  displeasure  and  recovered  all  her  tenderness. 

During  Warwick's  brief  absence,  Isabel  had,  indeed,  exerted 
her  utmost  power  to  repair  her  former  wrongs,  and  induce 
Clarence  to  be  faithful  to  his  oath.  Although  her  inconsis- 
tency and  irresolution  had  much  weakened  her  influence  with 
the  Duke,  for  natures  like  his  are  governed  but  by  the  ascen- 
dancy of  a  steady  and  tranquil  will,  yet  still  she  so  far  pre- 


556  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

vailed,  that  the  Duke  had  despatched  to  Richard  a  secret 
courier,  informing  him  that  he  had  finally  resolved  not  to  de- 
sert his  father-in-law. 

This  letter  reached  Gloucester  as  the  invaders  were  on  their 
march  to  Coventry,  before  the  strong  walls  of  which  the  Duke 
of  Clarence  lay  encamped.  Richard,  after  some  intent  and 
silent  reflection,  beckoned  to  him  his  familiar  Catesby. 

"Marmaduke  Nevile,  whom  our  scouts  seized  on  his  way  to 
Pontefract,  is  safe,  and  in  the  rear?" 

"Yes,  my  lord;  prisoners  but  encumber  us;  shall  I  give 
orders  to  the  provost  to  end  his  captivity?" 

"Ever  ready,  Catesby!"  said  the  Duke,  with  a  fell  smile. 
"No — hark  ye,  Clarence  vacillates;  if  he  hold  firm  to  Warwick, 
and  the  two  forces  fight  honestly  against  us,  we  are  lost;  on 
the  other  hand,  if  Clarence  join  us,  his  defection  will  bring  not 
only  the  men  he  commands,  all  of  whom  are  the  retainers  of 
the  York  lands  and  duchy,  and  therefore  free  from  peculiar 
bias  to  the  Earl,  and  easily  lured  back  to  their  proper  chief; 
but  it  will  set  an  example  that  will  create  such  distrust  and 
panic  amongst  the  enemy,  and  give  such  hope  of  fresh  deser- 
tions to  our  own  men,  as  will  open  to  us  the  keys  of  the  metropo- 
lis. But  Clarence,  I  say,  vacillates;  look  you,  here  is  his  let- 
ter from  Amboise  to  King  Edward;  see,  his  Duchess,  Warwick's 
very  daughter,  approves  the  promise  it  contains!  If  this  letter 
reach  Warwick,  and  Clarence  knows  it  in  his  hand,  George 
will  have  no  option  but  to  join  us.  He  will  never  dare  to  face 
the  Earl,  his  pledge  to  Edward  once  revealed — " 

"Most  true;  a  very  legal  subtlety,  my  lord,"  said  the  lawyer 
Catesby  admiringly, 

"You  can  serve  us  in  this.  Fall  back ;  join  Sir  Marmaduke ; 
affect  to  sympathize  with  him ;  affect  to  side  with  the  Earl ; 
affect  to  make  terms  for  Warwick's  amity  and  favor;  affect  to 
betray  us;  affect  to  have  stolen  this  letter.  Give  it  to  young 
Nevile,  artfully  effect  his  escape,  as  if  against  our  knowledge, 
and  commend  him  to  lose  not  an  hour — a  moment — in  gaining 
the  Earl,  and  giving  him  so  important  a  forewarning  of  the 
meditated  treason  of  his  son-in-law." 

"I  will  do  all:  I  comprehend:  but  how  will  the  Duke  learn 
in  time  that  the  letter  is  on  its  way  to  Warwick?" 

"I  will  see  the  Duke,  in  his  own  tent." 

"And  how  shall  I  effect  Sir  Marmaduke's  escape?" 

"Send  hither  the  officer  who  guards  the  prisoner;  I  will  give 
him  orders  to  obey  thee  in  all  things." 

The    invaders    marched    on.      The   Earl,    meanwhile,    had 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  557 

reached  Warwick — hastened  thence,  to  throw  himself  into  the 
stronger  fortifications  of  the  neighboring  Coventry,  without  the 
walls  of  which  Clarence  was  still  encamped  ;  Edward  advanced 
on  the  town  of  Warwick  thus  vacated ;  and  Richard,  at  night, 
rode  alone  to  the  camp  of  Clarence.* 

The  next  day,  the  Earl  was  employed  in  giving  orders  to  his 
lieutenants  to  march  forth,  join  the  troops  of  his  son-in-law, 
who  were  a  mile  from  the  walls,  and  advance  upon  Edward, 
who  had  that  morning  quitted  Warwick  town,  when  suddenly 
Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile  rushed  into  his  presence,  and,  faltering 
out,  "Beware,  beware!"  placed  in  his  hands  the  fatal  letter 
which  Clarence  had  despatched  from  Amboise. 

Never  did  blow  more  ruthless  fall  upon  man's  heart!  Clar- 
ence's perfidy — that  might  be  disdained,  but  the  closing  lines, 
which  revealed  a  daughter's  treachery — words  cannot  express 
the  father's  anguish. 

The  letter  dropped  from  his  hand,  a  stupor  seized  his  senses, 
and,  ere  yet  recovered,  pale  men  hurried  into  his  presence  to 
relate  how,  amidst  joyous  trumpets  and  streaming  banners, 
Richard  of  Gloucester  had  led  the  Duke  of  Clarence  to  the 
brotherly  embrace  of  Edward. f 

Breaking  from  these  messengers  of  evil  news,  that  could  not 
now  surprise,  the  Earl  strode  on,  alone,  to  his  daughter's  cham- 
ber. He  placed  the  letter  in  her  hands,  and  folding  his  arms, 
said  :  "  What  sayest  thou  of  this,  Isabel  of  Clarence  ?  " 

The  terror,  the  shame,  the  remorse,  that  seized  upon  the 
wretched  lady — the  death-like  lips — the  suppressed  shriek — the 
momentary  torpor,  succeeded  by  the  impulse  which  made  her 
fall  at  her  father's  feet,  and  clasp  his  knees — told  the  Earl,  if 
he  had  before  doubted,  that  the  letter  lied  not — that  Isabel  had 
known  and  sanctioned  its  contents. 

He  gazed  on  her  (as  she  grovelled  at  his  feet)  with  a  look 
that  her  eyes  did  well  to  shun. 

"  Curse  me  not — curse  me  not  !  "  cried  Isabel,  awed  by  his 
very  silence.  "It  was  but  a  brief  frenzy.  Evil  counsel — evil 
passion  !  I  was  maddened  that  my  boy  had  lost  a  crown.  I 
repented — I  repented — Clarence  shall  yet  be  true.  He  hath 
promised  it — vowed  it  to  me  ;  hath  written  to  Gloucester  to 
retract  all — to — " 

"Woman  !     Clarence  is  in  Edward's  camp !  " 

*  Hall,  and  others. 

t  Hall.  The  chronicler  adds:  "  It  was  no  marvell  that  the  Duke  of  Clarence,  with  so  small 
persuasion  and  less  exhorting,  turned  from  the  Earl  of  Warwick's  party,  for,  as  you  have 
heard  before,  this  marchandise  was  labored,  conducted,  and  concluded  by  a  damsel!,  when 
the  Duke  was  in  the  French  Court,  to  the  Earl's  utter  confusion."  Hume  makes  a  notable 
mistake  in  deferring  the  date  of  Clarence's  desertion  to  the  Battle  of  Harriet. 


558  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

Isabel  started  to  her  feet,  and  uttered  a  shriek  so  wild  and 
despairing,  that  at  least  it  gave  to  her  father's  lacerated  heart 
the  miserable  solace  of  believing  the  last  treason  had  not  been 
shared.  A  softer  expression — one  of  pity,  if  not  of  pardon — 
stole  over  his  dark  face. 

"I  curse  thee  not,"  he  said,  "I  rebuke  thee  not.  Thy  sin 
hath  its  own  penance.  Jll  omen  broods  on  the  hearth  of  the 
household  traitor  !  Never  more  shalt  thou  see  holy  love  in  a 
husband's  smile.  His  kiss  shall  have  the  taint  of  Judas.  From 
his  arms  thou  shalt  start  with  horror,  as  from  those  of  thy 
wronged  father's  betrayer — perchance  his  deathsman  !  Ill 
omen  broods  on  the  cradle  of  the  child  for  whom  a  mother's 
ambition  was  but  a  daughter's  perfidy.  Woe  to  thee,  wife 
and  mother  !  Even  my  forgiveness  cannot  avert  thy  doom  !  " 

"  Kill  me  ;  kill  me  !  "  exclaimed  Isabel,  springing  towards 
him ;  but  seeing  his  face  averted,  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast — that  noble  breast,  never  again  her  shelter — she  fell 
lifeless  on  the  floor.* 

The  Earl  looked  round,  to  see  that  none  were  by  to  witness 
his  weakness,  took  her  gently  in  his  arms,  laid  her  on  her  couch, 
and,  bending  over  her  a  moment,  prayed  God  to  pardon  her. 

He  then  hastily  left  the  room — ordered  her  handmaids  and 
her  litter  and  while  she  was  yet  unconscious  the  gates  of  the 
town  opened,  and  forth  through  the  arch  went  the  closed  and 
curtained  vehicle  which  bore  the  ill-fated  Duchess  to  the 
new  home  her  husband  had  made  with  her  father's  foe  !  The 
Earl  watched  it  from  the  casement  of  his  tower,  and  said  to 
himself : 

"  I  had  been  unmanned  had  I  known  her  within  the  same 
walls.  Now  for  ever  I  dismiss  her  memory  and  her  crime. 
Treachery  hath  done  its  worst,  and  my  soul  is  proof  against  all 
storm  !  " 

At  night  came  messengers  from  Clarence  and  Edward,  who 
had  returned  to  Warwick  town,  with  offers  of  pardon  to  the 
Earl — with  promises  of  favor,  power,  and  grace.  To  Edward, 
the  Earl  deigned  no  answer  ;  to  the  messenger  of  Clarence  he 

*  As  our  narrative  does  not  embrace  the  future  fate  of  the  Duchess  of  Clarence,  the 
reader  will  pardon  us  if  we  remind  him  that  her  firstborn  (who  bore  his  illustrious  grand- 
father's title  of  Earl  of  Warwick),  was  cast  into  prison,  on  the  accession  of  Henry  VII., 
and  afterwards  beheaded  by  that  King.  By  birtn  he  was  the  rightful  heir  to  the  throne. 
The  ill-fated  Isabel  died  young  (five  years  after  the  date  at  which  our  tale  has  arrived). 
One  of  her  female  attendants  was  tried  and  executed  on  the  charge  of  having  poisoned 
her.  Clarence  lost  no  time  in  seeking  to  supply  her  place.  He  solicited  the  hand  of  Mary 
of  Burgundy,  sole  daughter  and  heir  of  Charles  the  Bold.  Edward's  jealousy  and  fear 
forbade  him  to  listen  to  an  alliance  that  might,  as  Lingard  observes,  enable  Clarence  "  to 
employ  the  power  of  Burgundy  to  win  the  crown  of  England  ";  and  hence  arose  those  di»- 
lensions  which  ended  in  the  secret  murder  of  the  perjured  Duke. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  55^ 

gave  this  :  "  Tell  thy  master,  I  had  liefer  be  always  like  myself 
than  like  a  false  and  a  perjured  Duke,  and  that  I  am  determined 
never  to  leave  the  war  till  I  have  lost  mine  own  life,  or  utterly 
extinguished  and  put  down  my  foes."* 

After  this  terrible  defection,  neither  his  remaining  forces,  nor 
the  panic  amongst  them  which  the  Duke's  desertion  had  oc- 
casioned, nor  the  mighty  interests  involved  in  the  success  of 
his  arms,  nor  the  irretrievable  advantage  which  even  an 
engagement  of  equivocal  result  with  the  Earl  in  person  would 
give  to  Edward,  justified  Warwick  in  gratifying  the  anticipa- 
tions of  the  enemy, — that  his  valor  and  wrath  would  urge  him 
into  immediate  and  imprudent  battle. 

Edward,  after  the  vain  bravado  of  marching  up  to  the  walls 
of  Coventry,  moved  on  towards  London.  Thither  the  Earl  sent 
Marmaduke,  enjoining  the  Archbishop  of  York  and  the  lord 
mayor  but  to  hold  out  the  city  for  three  days,  and  he  would 
come  to  their  aid  with  such  a  force  as  would  ensure  lasting 
triumph.  For,  indeed,  already  were  hurrying  to  his  banner, 
Montagu,  burning  to  retrieve  his  error  ;  Oxford  and  Exeter, 
recovered  from,  and  chafing  at,  their  past  alarm.  Thither  his 
nephew,  Fitzhugh,  led  the  Earl's  own  clansmen  of  Middleham; 
thither  were  spurring  Somerset  from  the  west,f  and  Sir  Thomas 
Dymoke  from  Lincolnshire,  and  the  Knight  of  Lytton,  with  his 
hardy  retainers,  from  the  Penk.  Bold  Hilyard  waited  not  far 
from  London,  with  a  host  of  mingled  yeomen  and  bravos, 
reduced,  as  before,  to  discipline  under  his  own  sturdy  energies 
and  the  military  craft  of  Sir  John  Coniers.  If  London  would 
but  hold  out  till  these  forces  could  unite,  Edward's  destruction 
was  still  inevitable. 


BOOK  XII. 

THE    BATTLE    OF    BARNET. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  KING  IN  HIS   CITY  HOPES  TO  RECOVER  HIS  REALM — A    WOMAN 
IN    HER    CHAMBER    FEARS    TO    FORFEIT    HER    OWN. 

EDWARD  and  his  army  reached  St.  Albans.     Great  commo- 
tion, great  joy  were  in  the   Sanctuary  of  Westminster!     The 

*  Hall. 

t  Most  historians  state  that  Somerset  was  then  in  London  ;  but  Sharon  Turner  quotes 
Harleian  MSS  ,  38.  to  show  that  he  had  left  the  metropolis  "  to  raise  an  army  from  the 
western  countries,  and  ranks  him  amongst  the  generals  at  the  battle  of  Barnct, 


5<JO  '1  HE    LAST    Ot     TH1     KARONS. 

Jerusalem  Chamber,  therein,  was  made  the  high  council  hall 
of  the  friends  of  York.  Great  commotion,  great  terror  were  in 
the  city  of  London — timid  Master  Stokton  had  been  elected 
mayor;  horribly  frightened  either  to  side  with  an  Edward  or  a 
Henry,  timid  Master  Stokton  feigned  or  fell  ill.  Sir  Thomas 
Cook,  a  wealthy  and  influential  citizen,  and  a  member  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  had  been  appointed  deputy  in  his  stead. 
Sir  Thomas  Cook  took  fright  also,  and  ran  away.*  The  power 
of  the  city  thus  fell  into  the  hands  of  Ursewike,  the  Recor- 
der, a  zealous  Yorkist.  Great  commotion,  great  scorn,  were  in 
the  breasts  of  the  populace  as  the  Archbishop  of  York,  hoping 
thereby  to  rekindle  their  loyalty,  placed  King  Henry  on  horse- 
back, and  paraded  him  through  the  streets,  from  Chepeside 
to  Walbrook,  from  Walbrook  to  St.  Paul's;  for  the  news  of 
Edward's  arrival,  and  the  sudden  agitation  and  excitement  it 
produced  on  his  enfeebled  frame,  had  brought  upon  the  poor 
King  one  of  the  epileptic  attacks  to  which  he  had  been  subject 
from  childhood,  and  which  made  the  cause  of  his  frequent  im- 
becility; and,  just  recovered  from  such  a  fit — his  eyes  vacant, 
his  face  haggard,  his  head  drooping,  the  spectacle  of  such  an  an- 
tagonist to  the  vigorous  Edward  moved  only  pity  in  the  few,  and 
ridicule  in  the  many.  Two  thousand  Yorkist  gentlemen  were 
in  the  various  Sanctuaries;  aided  and  headed  by  the  Earl  of 
Essex,  they  came  forth  armed  and  clamorous,  scouring  the 
streets,  and  shouting,  "King  Edward!"  with  impunity.  Ed- 
ward's popularity  in  London  was  heightened  amongst  the  mer- 
chants by  prudent  reminiscences  of  the  vast  debts  he  had  in- 
curred, which  his  victory  only  could  ever  enable  him  to  repay 
to  his  good  citizens.f  The  women,  always,  in  such  a  moment, 
active  partisans,  and  useful,  deserted  their  hearths  to  canvass 
all  strong  arms  and  stout  hearts  for  the  handsome  woman- 
lover.J  The  Yorkist  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  did  his  best 
with  the  ecclesiastics,  the  Yorkist  Recorder  his  best  with  the 
flat-caps.  Alvvyn,  true  to  his  anti-feudal  principles,  animated 
all  the  young  freemen  to  support  the  merchant  King,  the  favorer 
of  commerce,  the  man  of  his  age!  The  city  authorities  began 
to  yield  to  their  own  and  the  general  metropolitan  predilections. 
But  still  the  Archbishop  of  York  had  six  thousand  soldiers 
at  his  disposal,  and  London  could  be  yet  saved  to  Warwick,  if 
the  prelate  acted  with  energy,  and  zeal,  and  good  faith.  That 
such  was  his  first  intention  is  clear,  from  his  appeal  to  the  pub- 
lic loyalty  in  King  Henry's  procession;  but  when  he  perceived 
how  little  effect  that  pageant  had  produced;  when,  on  re 

*  Fabyan.  t  Comines.  \  Ibid. 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  561 

entering  the  Bishop  of  London's  palace,  he  saw  before  him  the 
guileless  puppet  of  contending  factions,  gasping  for  breath, 
scarcely  able  to  articulate,  the  heartless  prelate  turned  away, 
with  a  muttered  ejaculation  of  contempt: 

"Clarence  had  not  deserted,"  said  he  to  himself,  "unless  he 
saw  greater  profit  with  King  Edward!"  And  then  he  began 
to  commune  with  himself,  and  to  commune  with  his  brother- 
prelate  of  Canterbury ;  and  in  the  midst  of  all  this  commune  ar- 
rived Catesby,  charged  with  messages  to  the  Archbishop  from 
Edward — messages  full  of  promise  and  affection  on  the  one 
hand,  of  menace  and  revenge  upon  the  other.  Brief — War- 
wick's cup  of  bitterness  had  not  yet  been  rilled;  that  night  the 
Archbishop  and  the  mayor  of  London  met,  and  the  Tower  was 
surrendered  to  Edward's  friends;  the  next  day  Edward  and  his 
army  entered,  amidst  the  shouts  of  the  populace;  rode  to  St. 
Paul's  where  the  Archbishop  *  met  him,  leading  Henry  by  the 
hand,  again  a  captive;  thence  Edward  proceeded  to  Westmin- 
ster Abbey,  and,  fresh  from  his  atrocious  perjury  at  York,  offered 
thanksgivings  for  its  success.  The  Sanctuary  yielded  up  its 
royal  fugitives,  and,  in  joy  and  in  pomp,  Edward  led  his  wife 
and  her  new-born  babe,  with  Jacquetta  and  his  elder  children, 
to  Baynard's  Castle. 

The  next  morning  (the  third  day),  true  to  his  promise,  War- 
wick marched  towards  London  with  the  mighty  armament  he 
had  now  collected.  Treason  had  done  its  work;  the  metropo- 
lis was  surrendered,  and  King  Henry  in  the  Tower. 

"These  things  considered,"  says  the  chronicler,  "the  Earl 
saw  thrt  all  calculations  of  necessity  were  brought  to  this  end — 
that  they  must  now  be  committed  to  the  hazard  and  chance  of 
one  battle."!  He  halted,  therefore,  at  St.  Albans,  to  rest  his 
troops;  and  marching  thence  towards  Barnet,  pitched  his  tents 
on  the  upland  ground,  then  called  the  Heath  or  Chase  of 
Gladsmoor,  and  waited  the  coming  foe. 

Nor  did  Edward  linger  long  from  that  stern  meeting.  Enter- 
ing London  on  the  nth  of  April,  he  prepared,  to  quit  it  on  the 
i3th.  Besides  the  force  he  had  brought  with  him  he  had  now 
recruits  in  his  partisans  from  the  Sanctuaries  and  other  hiding- 
places  in  the  metropolis,  while  London  furnished  him,  from 
her  high-spirited  youths,  a  gallant  troop  of  bow  and  billmen, 
whom  Alwyn  had  enlisted,  and  to  whom  Edward  willingly  ap- 
pointed, as  captain,  Alwyn  himself;  who  had  atoned  for  his 

*  Sharon  Turner.  It  is  a  comfort  to  think  that  this  archbishop  was,  two  years  after- 
wards, first  robbed,  and  then  imprisoned,  by  Edward  IV.,  nor  did  he  recover  his  liberty  til! 
a  few  weeks  before  his  death,  in  1476  (five  years  subsequently  to  the  battle  of  Barnet). 

t  Hall. 


562  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

submission  to  Henry's  restoration  by  such  signal  activity  oft 
behalf  of  the  young  King,  whom  he  associated  with  the  inter- 
ests of  his  class,  and  the  weal  of  the  great  commercial  city, 
which  some  years  afterwards  rewarded  his  affection  by  electing 
him  to  her  chief  magistracy.* 

It  was  on  that  very  day,  the  i3th  of  April,  some  hours  before 
the  departure  of  the  York  army,  that  Lord  Hastings  entered 
the  Tower,  to  give  orders  relative  to  the  removal  of  the  un- 
happy Henry,  whom  Edward  had  resolved  to  take  with  him 
on  his  march. 

And  as  he  had  so  ordered,  and  was  about  to  return,  Alwyn, 
emerging  from  one  of  the  interior  courts,  approached  him  in 
much  agitation,  and  said  thus:  "Pardon  me,  my  lord,  if  in  so 
grave  an  hour  I  recall  your  attention  to  one  you  may  haply 
have  forgotten." 

"  Ah,  the  poor  maiden  ;  but  you  told  me,  in  the  hurried 
words  that  we  have  already  interchanged,  that  she  was  safe 
and  well." 

"  Safe,  my  lord — not  well.  Oh,  hear  me.  I  depart  to  battle 
for  your  cause  and  your  King's.  A  gentleman  in  your  train  has 
advised  me  that  you  are  married  to  a  noble  dame  in  the  foreign 
land.  If  so,  this  girl  whom  I  have  loved  so  long  and  truly, 
may  yet  forget  you — may  yet  be  mine.  Oh,  give  me  that  hope, 
to  make  me  a  braver  soldier." 

"  But  "  said  Hastings,  embarrassed,  and  with  a  changing 
countenance — "  but  time  presses,  and  I  know  not  where  the 
demoiselle — " 

"  She  is  here,"  interrupted  Alwyn  ;  "  here,  within  these 
walls,  in  yonder  courtyard.  I  have  just  left  her.  You,  whom 
she  loves,  forgot  her  !  /,  whom  she  disdains,  remembered.  I 
went  to  see  to  her  safety,  to  counsel  her  to  rest  here  for  the 
present,  whatever  betides  :  and,  at  every  word  I  said  she  broke 
in  upon  me  biit  with  one  name — that  name  was  thine  !  And 
when  stung,  and  in  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  I  exclaimed : 
'  He  deserves  not  this  devotion.  They  tell  me,  Sibyll,  that 
Lord  Hastings  has  found  a  wife  in  exile' — oh,  that  look  !  that 
cry  !  they  haunt  me  still.  '  Prove  it — prove  it,  Alwyn,'  she  cried, 
'  And — '  I  interrupted  :  '  And  thou  couldst  yet,  for  thy  father's 
sake,  be  true  wife  to  me ' !  " 

"  Her  answer,  Alwyn  ?  " 

"  It  was  this  :  '  For  my  father's  sake  only,  then,  could  I  live 

*  Nicholas  Alwyn,  the  representative  of  that  generation  which  aided  the  commercial  and 
anti-feudal  policy  of  Edward  IV.  and  Richard  III.,  and  welcomed  its  consummation  under 
their  Tudor  successor,  rose  to  be  Lord  Mayor  of  London  in  the  fifteenth  year  of  the  reign 
0.  Henry  VII.— Fabyan. 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  563 

on  ;  and — '  her  sobs  stopped  her  speech,  till  she  cried  again  : 
'  I  believe  it  not !  thou  hast  deceived  me.  Only  from  his 
lips  will  I  hear  the  sentence.'  Go  to  her,  manfully  and  frankly, 
as  becomes  you,  high  lord — go  !  It  is  but  a  single  sentence 
thou  hast  to  say,  and  thy  heart  will  be  the  lighter,  and  thine 
arm  the  stronger,  for  those  honest  words." 

Hastings  pulled  his  cap  over  his  brow,  and  stood  a  moment 
as  if  in  reflection  ;  he  then  said  :  "  Show  me  the  way  ;  thou 
art  right.  It  is  due  to  her  and  to  thee  ;  and  as,  by  this  hour 
to-morrow,  my  soul  may  stand  before  the  Judgment  seat,  that 
poor  child's  pardon  may  take  one  sin  from  the  large  account." 

CHAPTER  II. 

SHARP   IS    THE    KISS   OF    THE    FALCON'S    BEAK  ! 

HASTINGS  stood  in  the  presence  of  the  girl  to  whom  he  had 
pledged  his  truth.  They  were  alone  ;  but  in  the  next  chamber 
might  be  heard  the  peculiar  sound  made  by  the  mechanism  of 
the  Eureka.  Happy  and  lifeless  mechanism,  which  moves, 
and  toils,  and  strives  on,  to  change  the  destiny  of  millions, 
but  hath  neither  ear,  nor  eye,  nor  sense,  nor  heart — the  avenues 
of  pain  to  man  !  She  had — yes,  literally — she  had  recognized 
her  lover's  step  upon  the  stair  ;  she  had  awakened  at  once 
from  that  dull  and  icy  lethargy  with  which  the  words  of  Alwyn 
had  chained  life  and  soul.  She  sprang  forward  as  Hastings 
entered  ;  she  threw  herself,  in  delirious  joy,  upon  his  bosom. 
"  Thou  art  come — thou  art !  It  is  not  true — not  true.  Heaven 
bless  thee  ! — thou  art  come  !  "  But  sudden  as  the  movement, 
was  the  recoil.  Drawing  herself  back,  she  gazed  steadily  on 
his  face,  and  said  :  "  Lord  Hastings,  they  tell  me  thy  hand  is 
another's.  Is  it  true  ?  " 

"  Hear  me  ! "  answered  the  nobleman.     "  When  first  I — " 

"  Oh,  God  ! — oh,  God  !  he  answers  not — he  falters.  Speak ! 
Is  it  true  !  " 

"  It  is  true.     I  am  wedded  to  another." 

Sibyll  did  not  fall  to  the  ground,  nor  faint,  nor  give  vent  to 
noisy  passion.  But  the  rich  color,  which  before  had  been 
varying  and  fitful,  deserted  her  cheek,  and  left  it  of  an  ashen 
whiteness  ;  the  lips,  too,  grew  tightly  compressed,  and  her  small 
fingers,  interlaced,  were  clasped  with  strained  and  convulsive 
energy,  so  that  the  quivering  of  the  very  arms  was  perceptible. 
In  all  else  she  seemed  composed,  and  she  said  :  "  I  thank  you, 
my  lord,  for  the  simple  truth — no  more  is  needed.  Heaven 
bless  you  and  yours  !  Farewell  !  " 


564  THE  LAST  OF  THE 

"  Stay  ! — you  shall — you  must  hear  me  on.  Thou  knowest 
how  dearly  in  youth  I  loved  {Catherine  Nevile.  In  manhood 
the  memory  of  that  love  haunted  me,  but  beneath  thy  sweet 
smile  I  deemed  it,  at  last,  effaced  ;  I  left  thee  to  seek  the  King, 
and  demand  his  assent  to  our  union.  I  speak  not  of  obstacles 
that  then  arose  ;  in  the  midst  of  them  I  learned  Katherinewas 
lone  and  widowed — was  free.  At  her  own  summons,  I  sought 
her  presence,  and  learned  that  she  had  loved  me — loved  me 
still.  The  intoxication  of  my  early  dream  returned — reverse 
and  exile  followed  close — Katherine  left  her  state,  her  fortunes, 
her  native  land,  and  followed  the  banished  man,  and  so 
memory,  and  gratitude,  and  destiny  concurred,  and  the  mistress 
of  my  youth  became  my  wife.  None  other  could  have  replaced 
thy  image — none  other  have  made  me  forget  the  faith  I  pledged 
thee.  The  thought  of  thee  has  still  pursued  me — will  pursue 
me  till  the  last.  I  dare  not  say  noiv  that  I  love  thee  still,  but 
yet — "  He  paused,  but  rapidly  resumed  :  "  Enough,  enough — 
dear  art  thou  to  me,  and  honored — dearer,  more  honored  than 
a  sister.  Thank  Heaven,  at  least,  and  thine  own  virtue,  my 
falsehood  leaves  thee  pure  and  stainless.  Thy  hand  may  yet 
bless  a  worthier  man.  If  our  cause  triumphs,  thy  fortunes, 
thy  father's  fate,  shall  be  my  fondest  care.  Never — never  will 
my  sleep  be  sweet,  and  my  conscience  laid  to  rest,  till  I  hear 
thee  say.  as  honored  wife — perchance,  as  blessed  and  ble&sing 
mother — 'False  one,  I  am  happy*  !  " 

A  cold  smile,  at  these  last  words,  flitted  over  the  girl's 
face — the  smile  of  a  broken  heart — but  it  vanished,  and  with 
that  strange  mixture  of  sweetness  and  pride — mild  and  forgiv- 
ing, yet  still  spirited  and  firm — which  belonged  to  her  charac- 
ter, she  nerved  herself  to  the  last  and  saddest  effort  to  preserve 
dignity  and  conceal  despair.  "Farther  words,  my  lord,  are 
idle;  I  am  rightly  punished  for  a  proud  folly.  Let  not  woman 
love  above  her  state.  Think  no  more  of  my  destiny." 

"No,  no,"  interrupted  the  remorseful  lord,  "thy  destiny 
must  haunt  me  till  thou  hast  chosen  one  with  a  better  right  to 
protect  thee." 

At  the  repetition  of  that  implied  desire  to  transfer  her  also 
to  another,  a  noble  indignation  came  to  mar  the  calm  for  which 
she  had  hitherto  not  vainly  struggled.  "Oh,  man!"  she  ex- 
claimed, with  passion,  "does  thy  deceit  give  me  the  right  to 
deceive  another?  I — I  wed !  I — I — vow  at  the  altar — a  love 
dead,  dead  forever — dead  as  my  own  heart !  Why  dost  thou 
mock  me  with  the  hollow  phrase,  'Thou  art  pure  and  stain- 
legs'?  Is  the  virginity  of  the  soul  still  left?  Do  the  tears  { 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  565 

have  shed  for  thee — doth  the  thrill  of  my  heart,  when  I  heard 
thy  voice — doth  the  plighted  kiss  that  burns,  burns  now  into 
my  brow,  and  on  my  lips — do  these,  these  leave  me  free  to 
carry  to  a  new  affection  the  cinders  and  ashes  of  a  soul  thou 
hast  ravaged  and  deflowered?  Oh,  coarse  and  rude  belief  of 
men,  that  nought  is  lost  if  the  mere  form  be  pure !  The  fresh- 
ness of  the  first  feelings,  the  bloom  of  the  sinless  thought,  the 
sigh,  the  blush  of  the  devotion — never,  never  felt  but  once! 
these,  these  make  the  true  dower  a  maiden  should  bring  to  the 
hearth  to  which  she  comes  as  wife.  Oh,  taunt !  Oh,  insult ! 
to  speak  to  me  of  happiness — of  the  altar!  Thou  never  knew- 
est,  lord,  how  I  really  loved  thee!"  And  for  the  first  time, 
a  violent  gush  of  tears  came  to  relieve  her  heart. 

Hastings  was  almost  equally  overcome.  Well  experienced 
as  he  was  in  those  partings,  when  maids  reproach  and  gallants 
pray  for  pardon,  but  still  sigh,  "Farewell,"  he  had  now  no 
words  to  answer  that  burst  of  uncontrollable  agony,  and  he 
felt  at  once  humbled  and  relieved,  when  Sibyll  again,  with  one 
of  those  struggles  which  exhaust  years  of  life,  and  almost  leave 
us  callous  to  all  after-trial,  pressed  back  the  scalding  tears,  and 
said,  with  unnatural  sweetness:  "Pardon  me,  my  lord,  I  meant 
not  to  reproach — the  words  escaped  me — think  of  them  no 
more.  I  would  fain,  at  least,  part  from  you  now,  as  I  had 
once  hoped  to  part  from  you  at  the  last  hour  of  life,  without 
one  memory  of  bitterness  and  anger,  so  that  my  conscience, 
whatever  its  other  griefs,  might  say:  'My  lips  never  belied  my 
heart — my  words  never  pained  him!'  And  now  then,  Lord 
Hastings,  in  all  charity,  we  part.  Farewell,  forever,  and  for- 
ever! Thou  hast  wedded  one  who  loves  thee,  doubtless,  as 
tenderly  as  I  had  done.  Ah,  cherish  that  affection !  There 
are  times  even  in  thy  career  when  a  little  love  is  sweeter  than 
much  fame.  If  thou  thinkest  I  have  aught  to  pardon  thee, 
now  with  my  whole  heart  I  pray,  as  while  life  is  mine  that 
prayer  shall  be  murmured:  'Heaven  forgive  this  man,  as  I  do! 
Heaven  make  his  home  the  home  of  peace,  and  breathe  into 
those  now  near  and  dear  to  him  the  love  and  the  faith  that  I 
once — '  "  She  stopped,  for  the  words  choked  her,  and,  hiding 
her  face,  held  out  her  hand,  in  sign  of  charity  and  of  farewell. 

"Ah!  if  I  dared  pray  like  thee,"  murmured  Hastings, 
pressing  his  lips  upon  that  burning  hand,  "how  should  I  weary 
Heaven  to  repair,  by  countless  blessings,  the  wrong  which  I 
have  done  thee.  And  Heaven  will — oh,  it  surely  will!"  He 
pressed  the  hand  to  his  heart,  dropped  it,  and  was  gone. 

In  the  courtyard  he  was  accosted  by  Alwyn: 


566  THE    LAST    OK    THK    UARONS. 

"Thou  hast  been  frank,  my  lord?" 

"I  have." 

"And  she  bears  it,  and — 

"See  how  she  forgives,  and  how  /  suffer!"  said  Hastings, 
turning  his  face  towards  his  rival ;  and  Alwyn  saw  that  the 
tears  were  rolling  down  his  cheeks:  "Question  me  no  more." 

There  was  a  long  silence;  they  quitted  the  precincts  of  the 
Tower,  and  were  at  the  river-side.  Hastings,  waving  his  hand 
to  Alwyn,  was  about  to  enter  the  boat  which  was  to  bear  him 
to  the  war-council  assembled  at  Baynard's  Castle,  when  the 
trader  stopped  him,  and  said  anxiously: 

"Think  you  not,  for  the  present,  the  Tower  is  the  safest 
asylum  for  Sibyll  and  her  father?  If  we  fail  and  Warwick  re- 
turns, they  are  protected  by  the  Earl ;  if  we  triumph,  thou  wilt 
ensure  their  safety  from  all  foes?" 

"Surely;  in  either  case,  their  present  home  is  the  most 
secure." 

The  two  men  then  parted;  and  not  long  afterwards,  Hast- 
ings, who  led  the  bn-guard,  was  on  his  way  towards  Barnet : 
with  him  also  went  the  foot  volunteers  under  Alwyn.  The 
army  of  York  was  on  its  march.  Gloucester,  to  whose  vigi- 
lance and  energy  were  left  the  final  preparations,  was  neces- 
sarily the  last  of  the  generals  to  quit  the  city.  And  suddenly, 
while  his  steed  was  at  the  gate  of  Baynard's  Castle,  he  entered, 
armed  cap-a-pie,  into  the  chamber  where  the  Duchess  of  Bed- 
ford sate  with  her  grandchildren:  "Madame,"  said  he,  "I 
have  a  grace  to  demand  from  you,  which  will,  methinks,  not 
be  displeasing.  My  lieutenants  report  to  me  that  an  alarm  has 
spread  amongst  my  men — a  religious  horror  of  some  fearful 
bombards  and  guns  which  have  been  devised  by  a  sorcerer  in 
Lord  Warwick's  pay.  Your  famous  Friar  Bungey  has  been 
piously  amongst  them,  promising,  however,  that  the  mists  which 
now  creep  over  the  earth  shall  last  through  the  night  and  the 
early  morrow;  and  if  he  deceive  us  not,  we  may  post  our  men 
so  as  to  elude  the  hostile  artillery.  But,  sith  the  friar  is  so 
noted  and  influential,  and  sith  there  is  a  strong  fancy  that  the 
winds  which  have  driven  back  Margaret  obeyed  his  charm,  the 
soldiers  clamor  out  for  him  to  attend  us,  and,  on  the  very  field 
itself,  counteract  the  spells  of  the  Lancastrian  nigromancer. 
The  good  friar,  more  accustomed  to  fight  with  fiends  than 
men,  is  daunted,  and  resists.  As  much  may  depend  on  his 
showing  us  good  will,  and  making  our  fellows  suppose  we  have 
the  best  of  the  witchcraft,  I  pray  you  to  command  his  atten- 
dance, and  cheer  up  his  courage.  He  waits  without." 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  567 

"A  most  notable,  a  most  wise  advice,  beloved  Richard!" 
cried  the  Duchess.  "Friar  Bungey  is,  indeed,  a  potent  man. 
I  will  win  him  at  once  to  your  will" ;  and  the  Duchess  hurried 
from  the  room. 

The  friar's  bodily  fears  quieted  at  last  by  assurances  that  he 
should  be  posted  in  a  place  of  perfect  safety  during  the  battle, 
and  his  avarice  excited  by  promises  of  the  amplest  rewards,  he 
consented  to  accompany  the  troops  upon  one  stipulation,  viz., 
that  the  atrocious  wizard,  who  had  so  often  baffled  his  best 
spells — the  very  wizard  who  hadsuperintendedthe  accursed  bom- 
bards, and  predicted  Edward's  previous  defeat  and  flight  (to- 
gether with  the  diabolical  invention,  in  which  all  the  malice 
and  strength  of  his  sorcery  were  centred),  might,  according  to 
Jacquetta's  former  promise,  be  delivered  forthwith  to  his  mercy 
and  accompany  him  to  the  very  spot  where  he  was  to  dispel 
and  counteract  the  Lancastrian  nigromancer's  enchantments 
The  Duchess,  too  glad  to  purchase  the  friar's  acquiescence 
on  such  cheap  terms,  and  to  whose  superstitious  horror  for 
Adam's  lore  in  the  black  art  was  now  added  a  purely  political 
motive  for  desiring  him  to  be  made  away  with — inasmuch  as  in 
the  Sanctuary  she  had,  at  last,  extorted  from  Elizabeth  the 
dark  secret  which  might  make  him  a  very  dangerous  witness 
against  the  interests  and  honor  of  Edward — readily  and  joy- 
fully consented  to  this  proposition. 

A  strong  guard  was  at  once  despatched  to  the  Tower  with 
the  friar  himself,  followed  by  a  covered  wagon,  which  was  to 
serve  for  conveyance  to  Bungey  and  his  victim. 

In  the  mean  while  Sibyll,  after  remaining  for  some  lime  in 
the  chamber  which  Hastings  had  abandoned  to  her  solitary 
woe,  had  passed  to  the  room  in  which  her  father  held  mute 
commune  with  his  Eureka. 

The  machine  was  now  thoroughly  completed ;  improved  and 
perfected,  to  the  utmost  art  the  inventor  ever  could  attain. 
Thinking  that  the  prejudice  against  it  might  have  arisen  from 
its  uncouth  appearance,  the  poor  philosopher  had  sought  now 
to  give  it  a  gracious  and  imposing  appearance.  He  had 
painted  and  gilt  it  with  his  own  hands — it  looked  bright  and 
gaudy  in  its  gay  hues;  its  outward  form  was  worthy  of  the 
precious  and  propitious  jewel  which  lay  hidden  in  its  centre. 

"See,  child — see!"  said  Adam;  "is  it  not  beautiful  and 
comely?" 

"My  dear  father,  yes!"  answered  the  poor  girl,  as  still  she 
sought  to  smile;  then,  after  a  short  silence,  she  continued: 
"Father,  of  late,  methinks,  I  have  too  much  forgotten  thee; 


568  THE  LAST  OF  THE  UARONS. 

pardon  me,  if  so.  Henceforth  I  have  no  care  in  life  but  thee — - 
henceforth  let  me  ever,  when  thou  toilest,  come  and  sit  by  thy 
side.  I  would  not  be  alone!  /  dare  not !  Father!  father! 
God  shield  thy  harmless  life!  I  have  nothing  to  love  under 
heaven  but  thee!" 

The  good  man  turned  wistfully,  and  raised,  with  tremulous 
hands,  the  sad  face  that  had  pressed  itself  on  his  bosom.  Gaz- 
ing thereon  mournfully,  he  said:  "Some  new  grief  hath  chanced 
to  thee,  my  child.  Methought  I  heard  another  voice  besides 
thine  in  yonder  room.  Ah!  has  Lord  Hastings — " 

"Father,  spare  me! — thou  wert  too  right — thou  didst  judge 
too  wisely — Lord  Hastings  is  wedded  to  another!  But  see,  I 
can  smile  still — I  am  calm.  My  heart  will  not  break  so  long 
as  it  hath  thee  to  love  and  pray  for!" 

She  wound  her  arms  round  him  as  she  spoke,  and  he  roused 
himself  from  his  world  out  of  earth  again.  Though  he  could 
bring  no  comfort,  there  was  something,  at  least,  to  the  forlorn 
one,  in  his  words  of  love,  in  his  tears  of  pity. 

They  sat  down  together,  side  by  side,  as  the  evening  dark- 
ened. The  Eureka  forgotten  in  the  hour  of  its  perfection ! 
They  noted  not  the  torches  which  flashed  below,  reddened  at 
intervals  the  walls  of  their  chamber,  and  gave  a  glow  to  the  gay 
gilding  and  bright  hues  of  the  gaudy  model.  Yet  those  torches 
flickered  round  the  litter  that  was  to  convey  Henry  the  Peace- 
ful to  the  battlefield,  which  was  to  decide  the  dynasty  of  his 
realm !  The  torches  vanished,  and  forth  from  the  dark  for- 
tress went  the  captive  King. 

Night  succeeded  to  eve,  when  again  the  red  glare  shot  up- 
ward on  the  Eureka,  playing  with  fantastic  smile  on  its  quaint 
aspect — steps  and  voices,  and  the  clatter  of  arms,  sounded  in 
the  yard,  on  the  stairs,  in  the  adjoining  chamber — and  sud- 
denly the  door  was  flung  open,  and,  followed  by  some  half- 
score  soldiers,  strode  in  the  terrible  friar. 

"Aha,  Master  Adam!  who  is  the  greater  nigromancer  now? 
Seize  him!  Away!  And  help  you,  Master  Sergeant,  to  bear 
this  piece  of  the  foul  fiend's  cunning  devising.  Ho,  ho!  see 
you  how  it  is  tricked  out  and  furbished  up — all  for  the  battle, 
I  warrant  ye!" 

The  soldiers  had  already  seized  upon  Adam,  who,  stupefied 
by  astonishment  rather  than  fear,  uttered  no  sound,  and  at- 
tempted no  struggle.  But  it  was  in  vain  they  sought  to  tear 
from  him  Sibyll's  clinging  and  protecting  arms.  A  supernat- 
ural strength,  inspired  by  a  kind  of  superstition  that  no  harm 
could  chance  to  him  while  she  was  by,  animated  her  slight  form : 


THE   LAST    OF    THE   BARONS.  569 

and  fierce  though  the  soldiers  were,  they  shrunk  from  actual  and 
brutal  violence  to  one  thus  young  and  fair.  Those  small  hands 
clung  so  firmly,  that  it  seemed  that  nothing  but  the  edge  of  the 
sword  could  sever  the  child's  clasp  from  the  father's  neck. 

"Harm  him  not — harm  him  at  your  peril,  friar!"  she  cried, 
with  flashing  eyes.  "Tear  him  from  me,  and  if  King  Edward 
win  the  day,  Lord  Hastings  shall  have  thy  life ;  if  Lord  War- 
wick, thy  days  are  numbered,  too.  Beware,  and  avaunt!" 

The  Friar  was  startled.  He  had  forgotten  Lord  Hastings  in 
the  zest  of  his  revenge.  He  feared  that,  if  Sibyll  were  left  be- 
hind, the  tale  she  might  tell  would  indeed  bring  on  him  a  power- 
ful foe  in  the  daughter's  lover;  on  the  other  hand,  should  Lord 
Warwick  get  the  better,  what  vengeance  would  await  her  ap- 
peal to  the  great  protector  of  her  father!  He  resolved,  there- 
fore, on  the  instant,  to  take  Sibyll  as  well  as  her  father ;  and  if 
the  fortune  of  the  day  allowed  him  to  rid  himself  of  Warner, 
a  good  occasion  might  equally  occur  to  dispose  forever  of  the 
testimony  of  Sibyll.  He  had  already  formed  a  cunning  calcu- 
lation in  desiring  Warner's  company;  for  while,  should  Ed- 
ward triumph,  the  sacrifice  of  the  hated  Warner  was  resolved 
upon,  yet,  should  the  Earl  get  the  better,  he  could  make  a  merit 
to  Warner  that  he  (the  friar)  had  not  only  spared,  but  saved, 
his  life,  in  making  him  his  companion.  It  was  in  harmony  with 
this  double  policy  that  the  friar  mildly  answered  to  Sibyll : 

"Tush,  my  daughter!  Perhaps  if  your  father  be  true  to 
King  Edward,  and  aid  my  skill  instead  of  obstructing  it,  he 
may  be  none  the  worse  for  the  journey  he  must  take ;  and  if 
thou  likest  to  go  with  him,  there's  room  in  the  vehicle,  and  the 
more  the  merrier.  Harm  them  not,  soldiers — no  doubt  they 
will  follow  quietly." 

As  he  said  this,  the  men,  after  first  crossing  themselves,  had 
already  hoisted  up  the  Eureka;  and  when  Adam  saw  it  borne 
from  the  room,  he  instinctively  followed  the  bearers.  Sibyll, 
relieved  by  the  thought  that,  for  weal  or  for  woe,  she  should,  at 
least,  share  her  father's  fate,  and  scarce  foreboding  much  posi- 
tive danger  from  the  party  which  contained  Hastings  and 
Alwyn,  attempted  no  further  remonstrance. 

The  Eureka  was  placed  in  the  enormous  vehicle — it  served 
as  a  barrier  between  the  friar  and  his  prisoners. 

The  friar  himself,  as  soon  as  the  wagon  was  in  motion,  ad- 
dressed himself  civilly  enough  to  his  fellow-travellers,  and  as- 
sured them  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  unless  Adam  thought  fit 
to  disturb  his  incantations.  The  captives  answered  not  his 
address,  but  nestled  close  to  each  other,  interchanging,  at  in- 


570  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

tervals,  words  of  comfort,  and  recoiling  as  far  as  possible  from 
the  ex-tregetour,  who,  having  taken  with  him  a  more  congenial 
companion,  in  the  shape  of  a  great  leathern  bottle,  finally  sunk 
into  the  silent  and  complacent  doze  which  usually  rewards  the 
libations  to  the  Bromian  god. 

The  vehicle,  with  many  other  baggage-wagons  in  the  rear  of 
the  army,  in  that  memorable  night-march,  moved  mournfully 
on;  the  night  continued  wrapped  in  fog  and  mist,  agreeably  to 
the  weatherwise  predictions  of  the  friar;  the  rumbling  groan  of 
the  vehicle,  the  tramp  of  the  soldiers,  the  dull  rattle  of  their 
arms,  with  now  and  then  the  neigh  of  some  knight's  steed  in 
the  distance,  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke  the  silence,  till 
once,  as  they  neared  their  destination,  Sibyll  started  from  her 
father's  bosom,  and  shudderingly  thought  she  recognized  the 
hoarse  chant  and  the  tinkling  bells  of  the  ominous  tymbesteres. 

CHAPTER  III. 

A    PAUSE. 

IN  the  profound  darkness  of  the  night,  and  the  thick  fog,  Ed- 
ward had  stationed  his  men  at  venture  upon  the  heath  at  Glads- 
moor,*  and  hastily  environed  the  camp  with  palisades  and 
trenches.  He  had  intended  to  have  rested  immediately  in  front 
of  the  foe,  but,  in  the  darkness,  mistook  the  extent  of  the  hostile 
line,  and  his  men  were  ranged  only  opposite  to  the/<?//  side  of  the 
Earl's  force  (towards  Hadley),  leaving  the  right  unopposed. 
Most  fortunate  for  Edward  was  this  mistake;  for  Warwick's  ar- 
tillery, and  the  new  and  deadly  bombards  he  had  constructed, 
were  placed  in  the  right  of  the  Earl's  army;  and  the  provident 
Earl,  naturally  supposing  Edward's  left  was  there  opposed  to 
him,  ordered  his  gunners  to  cannonade  all  night.  Edward,  "as 
the  flashes  of  the  guns  illumined  by  fits  the  gloom  of  mid- 
night, saw  the  advantage  of  his  unintentional  error;  and  to 
prevent  Warwick  from  discovering  it,  reiterated  his  orders  for 
the  most  profound  silence."!  Thus  even  his  very  blunders 
favored  Edward  more  than  the  wisest  precautions  had  served 
his  hated  foe. 

Raw,  cold,  and  dismal  dawned  the  morning  of  the  fourteenth 
of  April,  the  Easter  Sabbath.  In  the  fortunes  of  that  day  were 
involved  those  of  all  the  persons  who  hitherto,  in  the  course  of 
this  narrative,  may  have  seemed  to  move  in  separate  orbits  fro  r> 

*  Edward  "  had  the  greater  number  of  men." — Hall,  p.  996. 
•t  Sharon  Turner. 


THE    LAST    OF   THE    BARONS.  57! 

the  fiery  star  of  Warwick.  Now,  in  this  crowning  hour,  the  vast 
and  gigantic  destiny  of  the  great  Earl  comprehended  all  upon 
which  its  darkness  or  its  light  had  fallen :  not  only  the  luxu- 
rious Edward,  the  perturbed  Clarence,  the  haughty  Margaret, 
her  gallant  son,  the  gentle  Anne,  the  remorseful  Isabel,  the 
dark  guile  of  Gloucester,  the  rising  fortunes  of  the  gifted  Hast- 
ings,— but  on  the  hazard  of  that  die  rested  the  hopes  of  Hil- 
yard,  and  the  interests  of  the  trader,  Alwyn,  and  the  perma- 
nence of  that  frank,  chivalric,  hardy,  still  half-Norman  race,  of 
which  Nicholas  Alwyn  and  his  Saxon  class'  were  the  rival  an- 
tagonistic principle,  and  Marmaduke  Nevile  the  ordinary  type. 
Dragged  inexorably  into  the  whirlpool  of  that  mighty  fate  were 
even  the  very  lives  of  the  simple  Scholar — of  his  obscure  and 
devoted  child.  Here,  into  this  gory  ocean,  all  scattered  rivu- 
lets and  streams  had  hastened  to  merge  at  last. 

But  grander  and  more  awful  than  all  individual  interests 
were  those  assigned  to  the  fortunes  of  this  battle,  so  memora- 
ble in  the  English  annals:  the  ruin  or  triumph  of  a  dynasty; 
the  fall  of  that  warlike  baronage,  of  which  Richard  Nevile  was 
the  personation — the  crowning  flower — the  greatest  representa- 
tive and  the  last — associated  with  memories  of  turbulence  and 
excess  it  is  true,  but  with  the  proudest  and  grandest  achieve- 
ments in  our  early  history ;  with  all  such  liberty  as  had  been  yet 
achieved  since  the  Norman  Conquest ;  with  all  such  glory  as 
had  made  the  island  famous — here  with  Runnymede,  and  there 
with  Cressy! — the  rise  of  a  crafty,  plotting,  imperious  Des- 
potism, based  upon  the  growing  sympathy  of  craftsmen  and 
traders,  and  ripening  on  the  one  hand  to  the  Tudor  tyranny, 
the  Republican  reaction  under  the  Stuarts,  the  slavery,  and  the 
civil  war;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  to  the  concentration  of  all 
the  vigor  and  life  of  genius  into  a  single  and  strong  govern- 
ment, the  graces,  the  arts,  the  letters  of  a  polished  court,  the 
freedom,  the  energy,  the  resources  of  a  commercial  population, 
destined  to  rise  above  the  tyranny  at  which  it  had  first  con- 
nived, and  give  to  the  emancipated  Saxon  the  markets  of  the 
world.  Upon  the  victory  of  that  day,  all  these  contending  in- 
terests— this  vast  alternative  in  the  future — swayed  and  trem- 
bled. Out,  then,  upon  that  vulgar  craving  of  those  who  com- 
prehend neither  the  vast  truths  of  life,  nor  the  grandeur  of  ideal 
art,  and  who  ask  from  poet  or  narrator,  the  poor  and  petty 
morality  of  "Poetical  Justice" — a  justice  existing  not  in  our 
work-day  world — a  justice  existing  not  in  the  sombre  page  of  his- 
tory— a  justice  existing  not  in  the  loftier  conceptions  of  men 
whose  genius  has  grappled  with  the  enigmas  which  art  and 


57*  THE    LAST    OF    THE   BARONS. 

poetry  mly  can  foreshadow  and  divine:  unknown  to  us  in  the 
street  and  the  market ;  unknown  to  ui:  on  the  scaffold  of  the 
patriot,  or  amidst  the  flames  of  the  martyr;  unknown  to  us  in 
the  Lear  and  the  Hamlet,  in  the  Agamemnon  and  Prometheus. 
Millions  upon  millions,  ages  upon  ages,  are  entered  but  as  items 
in  the  vast  account  in  which  the  recording  angel  sums  up  the 
unerring  justice  of  God  to  man. 

Raw,  cold,  and  dismal,  dawned  the  morning  of  the  i4th  of 
April.  And  on  that  very  day  Margaret  and  her  son,  and  the 
wife  and  daughter  of  Lord  Warwick,  landed,  at  last,  on  the 
shores  of  England.*  Come  they  for  joy,  or  for  woe — for  vic- 
tory, or  despair?  The  issue  of  this  day's  fight  on  the  Heath  of 
Gladsmoor  will  decide.  Prank  thy  halls,  O  Westminster,  for 
the  triumph  of  the  Lancastrian  King;  or  open  thou,  O  Grave, 
to  receive  the  saint-like  Henry  and  his  noble  son.  The  king- 
maker goes  before  ye,  saint-like  father  and  noble  son,  to  pre- 
pare your  thrones  amongst  the  living,  or  your  mansions 
amongst  the  dead! 

CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    BATTLE. 

RAW,  cold,  and  dismal,  dawned  the  morning  of  the  i4th  of 
April.  The  heavy  mist  still  covered  both  armies,  but  their  hum 
and  stir  was  already  heard  through  the  gloaming, — the  neigh- 
ing of  steeds,  and  the  clangor  of  mail.  Occasionally  a  move- 
ment of  either  force  made  dim  forms,  seeming  gigantic  through 
the  vapor,  indistinctly  visible  to  the  antagonist  army;  and  there 
was  something  ghastly  and  unearthlike  in  these  ominous  shapes, 
suddenly  seen,  and  suddenly  vanishing,  amidst  the  sullen  atmos- 
phere. By  this  time  Warwick  had  discovered  the  mistake  of 
his  gunners;  for,  to  the  right  of  the  Earl,  the  silence  of  the 
Yorkists  was  still  unbroken,  while  abruptly  from  the  thick 
gloom  to  the  left  broke  the  hoarse  mutter  and  low  growl  of  the 
awakening  war.  Not  a  moment  was  lost  by  the  Earl  in  repair- 
ing the  error  of  the  night :  his  artillery  wheeled  rapidly  from 
the  right  wing,  and,  sudden  as  a  storm  of  lightning,  the  fire 
from  the  cannon  flashed  through  the  dun  and  heavy  vapor; 
and,  not  far  from  the  very  spot  where  Hastings  was  marshalling 
the  wing  entrusted  to  his  command,  made  a  deep  chasm  in  the 
serried  ranks.  Death  had  begun  his  feast! 

At  that  moment,  however,  from  the  centre  of  the  Yorkist 
army  arose,  scarcely  drowned  by  the  explosion,  that  deep- 

*  Margaret  landed  at  Weymouth  ;  Lady  Warwick,  at  Portsmouth. 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  573 

toned  shout  of  enthusiasm,  which,  he  who  has  once  heard  it, 
coming,  as  it  were,  from  the  one  heart  of  an  armed  multitude, 
will  ever  recall  as  the  most  kindling  and  glorious  sound  which 
ever  quickened  the  pulse  and  thrilled  the  blood — for  along  that 
part  of  the  army  now  rode  King  Edward.  His  mail  was  pol- 
ished as  a  mirror,  but  otherwise  unadorned,  resembling  that 
which  now  invests  his  effigies  at  the  Tower,*  and  the  housings 
of  his  steed  were  spangled  with  silver  suns,  for  the  silver  sun 
was  the  cognizance  on  all  his  banners.  His  head  was  bare, 
and  through  the  hazy  atmosphere  the  gold  of  his  rich  locks 
seemed  literally  to  shine.  Followed  by  his  body  squire,  with 
his  helm  and  lance,  and  the  lords  in  his  immediate  staff,  his 
truncheon  in  his  hand,  he  passed  slowly  along  the  steady  line, 
till,  halting  where  he  deemed  his  voice  could  be  farthest  heard, 
he  reined  in,  and  lifting  his  hand,  the  shout  of  the  soldiery  was 
hushed,  though  still  while  he  spoke  from  Warwick's  archers 
came  the  arrowy  shower,  and  still  the  gloom  was  pierced  and  the 
hush  interrupted  by  the  flash  and  the  roar  of  the  bombards. 

"Englishmen  and  friends,"  said  the  martial  chief,  "to  bold 
deeds  go  but  few  words.  Before  you  is  the  foe!  From  Raven- 
spur  to  London  I  have  marched — treason  flying  from  my  sword, 
loyalty  gathering  to  my  standard.  With  but  two  thousand 
men,  on  the  i4th  of  March  I  entered  England — on  the  i4th  of 
April,  fifty  thousand  is  my  muster-roll.  Who  shall  say,  then, 
that  I  am  not  King,  when  one  month  mans  a  monarch's  army 
from  his  subjects'  love?  And  well  know  ye,  now,  that  my 
cause  is  yours  and  England's!  Those  against  us  are  men  who 
would  rule  in  despite  of  law — barons  whom  I  gorged  with  favors, 
and  who  would  reduce  this  fair  realm  of  Kings,  Lords,  and 
Commons,  to  be  the  appanage  and  property  of  one  man's  meas- 
ureless ambition — the  park,  forsooth,  the  homestead  to  Lord 
Warwick's  private  house !  Ye  gentlemen  and  knights  of  Eng- 
land, let  them  and  their  rabble  prosper,  and  your  properties 
will  be  despoiled,  your  lives  insecure,  all  law  struck  dead. 
What  differs  Richard  of  Warwick  from  Jack  Cade,  save  that  if 
his  name  is  nobler,  so  is  his  treason  greater?  Commoners  and 
soldiers  of  England — freemen,  however  humble — what  do  these 
rebel  lords  (who  would  rule  in  the  name  of  Lancaster)  desire? 
To  reduce  you  to  villeins  and  to  bonsdmen,  as  your  forefathers 
were  to  rtiem.  Ye  owe  freedom  from  the  barons  to  the  just 
laws  of  my  sires  your  kings.  Gentlemen  and  knights,  com- 
moners and  soldiers,  Edward  IV.  upon  his  throne  will  not 

*  The  suit  of  armor,  however,  which  the  visitor  to  the  Royal  Armory  is  expected  to  be- 
lieve King  Edward  could  have  worn,  is  infinitely  too  small  for  such  credulity  Edward's 
height  was  six  feet  two  inches, 


574  THE    LAST   ot    TIIE    BARONS. 

profit  by  a  victory  more  than  you.  This  is  no  war  of  dainty 
chivalry,  it  is  a  war  of  true  men  against  false.  No  quarter! 
Spare  not  either  knight  or  hilding!  Warwick,  forsooth,  will 
not  smite  the  Commons.  Truly  not — the  rabble  are  his 
friends.  I  say  to  you — "  and  Edward,  pausing  in  the  excite- 
ment and  sanguinary  fury  of  his  tiger  nature — the  soldiers, 
heated  like  himself  to  the  thirst  of  blood,  saw  his  eyes  sparkle, 
and  his  teeth  gnash,  as  he  added  in  a  deeper  and  lower,  but 
not  less  audible  voice:  "I  say  to  you,  SLAY  ALL!*  What  heel 
spares  the  viper's  brood?" 

"We  will — we  will!"  was  the  horrid  answer,  which  came 
hissing  and  muttered  forth  from  morion  and  cap  of  steel. 

"Hark!  to  their  bombards!"  resumed  Edward.  "The 
enemy  would  fight* from  afar,  for  they  excel  us  in  their  archers 
and  gunners.  Upon  them,  then — hand  to  hand,  and  man  to 
man !  Advance  banners — sound  trumpets !  Sir  Oliver,  my 
bassinet!  Soldiers,  if  my  standard  falls,  look  for  the  plume 
upon  your  King's  helmet!  Charge!" 

Then,  with  a  shout  wilder  and  louder  than  before,  on 
through  the  hail  of  the  arrows — on  through  the  glare  of  the 
bombards — rather  with  a  rush  than  in  a  march,  advanced  Ed- 
ward' s  centre  against  the  array  of  Somerset.  But  from  a 
part  of  the  encampment  where  the  circumvallation  seemed 
strongest,  a  small  body  of  men  moved  not  with  the  general 
body. 

To  the  left  of  the  churchyard  of  Hadley,  at  this  day,  the 
visitor  may  notice  a  low  wall ;  on  the  other  side  of  that  wall  is 
a  garden,  then  but  a  rude  eminence  on  Gladsmoor  Heath.  On 
that  spot  a  troop  in  complete  armor,  upon  destriers  pawing 
impatiently,  surrounded  a  man  upon  a  sorry  palfrey,  and  in  a 
gown  of  blue — the  color  of  royalty  and  of  servitude — that  man 
was  Henry  the  Sixth.  In  the  same  space  stood  Friar  Bungey, 
his  foot  on  the  Eureka,  muttering  incantations,  that  the  mists 
he  had  foretold, f  and  which  had  protected  the  Yorkists  from 
the  midnight  guns,  might  yet  last,  to  the  confusion  of  the  foe. 
And  near  him,  under  a  gaunt,  leafless  tree,  a  rope  round  his 
neck,  was  Adam  Warner,  Sibyll,  still  faithful  to  his  side,  nor 
shuddering  at  the  arrows  and  the  guns ;  her  whole  fear  concen- 
trated upon  the  sole  life  for  which  her  own  was  prized.  Upon 
this  eminence,  then,  these  lookers-on  stood  aloof.  And  the 

*  Hall. 

t  Lest  the  reader  should  suppose  that  the  importance  of  Friar  Bungey  upon  this  bloody 
day  has  been  exaggerated  by  the  narrator,  we  must  cite  the  testimony  of  sober  Alderman 
Fabyan  :  '°  Of  the  mists  and  other  impediments  which  fell  upon  the  Lords'  party,  by  rea- 
son of  the  incantations  wrought  by  Friar  Bungey,  as  the  fame  went,  me  list  not  to  write," 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  575 

meek  ears  of  Henry  heard  through  the  fog  the  inexplicable 
sullen,  jarring,  clash — steel  had  met  steel. 

"Holy  Father!"  exclaimed  the  kingly  saint,  "and  this  is 
the  Easter  Sabbath,  thy  most  solemn  day  of  peace!" 

"Be  silent,"  thundered  the  friar,  "thou  disturbest  my  spells. 
Barabbarara — Santhinoa — Foggibus  increscebo — confusio  inimi- 
cis — Garabbora^  vapor  et  mistes  /  " 

We  must  now  rapidly  survey  the  dispositions  of  the  army 
under  Warwick.  In  the  right  wing,  the  command  was  en- 
trusted to  the  Earl  of  Oxford  and  the  Marquis  of  Montagu. 
The  former,  who  led  the  cavalry  of  that  division,  was  stationed 
in  the  van ;  the  latter,  according  to  his  usual  habit — surrounded 
by  a  strong  body-guard  of  knights,  and  a  prodigious  number  of 
squires  as  aide-de-camps — remained  at  the  rear,  and  directed 
thence,  by  his  orders,  the  general  movement.  In  this  wing  the 
greater  number  were  Lancastrian,  jealous  of  Warwick,  and  only 
consenting  to  the  generalship  of  Montagu,  because  shared  by 
their  favorite  hero,  Oxford.  In  the  mid-space  lay  the  chief 
strength  of  the  bowmen,  with  a  goodly  number  of  pikes  and 
bills,  under  the  Duke  of  Somerset ;  and  this  division  also  was 
principally  Lancastrian,  and  shared  the  jealousy  of  Oxford's 
soldiery.  The  left  wing,  composed  for  the  most  of  Warwick's 
yeomanry  and  retainers,  was  commanded  by  the  Duke  of  Ex- 
eter, conjointly  with  the  Earl  himself.  Both  armies  kept  a 
considerable  body  in  reserve,  and  Warwick,  besides  this  re- 
source, had  selected  from  his  own  retainers  a  band  of  picked 
archers,  whom  he  had  skilfully  placed  in  the  outskirts  of  a 
wood  that  then  stretched  from  Wrotham  Park  to  the  column 
that  now  commemorates  the  battle  of  Barnet,  on  the  high  north- 
ern road.  He  had  guarded  these  last-mentioned  archers 
(where  exposed  in  front  to  Edward's  horsemen)  by  strong,  tall 
barricades,  leaving  only  such  an  opening  as  would  allow  one 
horseman  at  a  time  to  pass,  and  defending  by  a  formidable 
line  of  pikes  this  narrow  opening  left  for  communication,  and 
to  admit  to  a  place  of  refuge  in  case  of  need.  These  disposi- 
tions made,  and  ere  yet  Edward  had  advanced  on  Somerset, 
the  Earl  rode  to  the  front  of  the  wing  under  his  special  com- 
mand, and,  agreeably  to  the  custom  of  the  time  observed  by 
his  royal  foe,  harangued  the  troops.  Here  were  placed  those 
who  loved  him  as  a  father,  and  venerated  him  as  something 
superior  to  mortal  man — here  the  retainers,  who  had  grown  up 
with  him  from  his  childhood,  who  had  followed  him  to  his  first 
fields  of  war,  who  had  lived  under  the  shelter  of  his  many 
castles,  and  fed  in  that  rude  equality  of  a  more  primeval  age, 


576  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

which  he  loved  still  to  maintain,  at  his  lavish  board.  And  now 
Lord  Warwick's  coal-black  steed  halted,  motionless  in  the  van. 
His  squire  bore  his  helmet,  overshadowed  by  the  eaglt  of 
Monthermer,  the  outstretched  wings  of  which  spread  wide  into 
sable  plumes;  and  as  the  Earl's  noble  face  turned  full  and  calm 
upon  the  bristling  lines,  there  arose,  not  the  vulgar  uproar  that 
greeted  the  aspect  of  the  young  King  Edward.  By  one  of  those 
strange  sympathies  which  pass  through  multitudes,  and  seize 
them  with  a  common  feeling,  the  whole  body  of  those  adoring 
vassals  became  suddenly  aware  of  the  change  which  a  year  had 
made  in  the  face  of  their  chief  and  father.  They  saw  the  gray 
flakes  in  his  Jove-like  curls,  the  furrows  in  that  lofty  brow,  the 
hollows  in  that  bronzed  and  manly  visage,  which  had  seemed 
to  their  rude  admiration  to  wear  the  stamp  of  the  two-fold 
Divinity — Beneficence  and  Valor.  A  thrill  of  tenderness  and 
awe  shot  through  the  veins  of  every  one — tears  of  devotion 
rushed  into  many  a  hardy  eye.  No — there,  was  not  the  ruth- 
less captain  addressing  his  hireling  butchers;  it  was  the  chief 
and  father  rallying  gratitude,  and  love,  and  reverence,  to  the 
crisis  of  his  stormy  fate. 

"My  friends,  my  followers,  and  my  children,"  said  the  Earl, 
"the  field  we  have  entered  is  one  from  which  there  is  no  re- 
treat ;  here  must  your  leader  conquer,  or  here  die.  It  is  not 
a  parchment  pedigree ;  it  is  not  a  name,  derived  from  the  ashes 
of  dead  men,  that  make  the  only  charter  of  a  king.  We  Eng- 
lishmen were  but  slaves,  if  in  giving  crcwn  and  sceptre  to  a 
mortal  like  ourselves,  we  asked  not  in  return  the  kingly  virtues. 
Beset,  of  old,  by  evil  counsellors,  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.  was 
obscured,  and  the  weal  of  the  realm  endangered.  Mine  own 
wrongs  seemed  to  me  great,  but  the  disasters  of  my  countiy 
not  less.  I  deemed  that  in  the  race  of  York  England  would 
know  a  wiser  and  happier  rule.  What  was,  in  this,  mine  error 
ye  partly  know.  A  prince  dissolved  in  luxurious  vices — a  no- 
bility degraded  by  minions  and  blood-suckers — a  people  plun- 
dered by  purveyors,  and  a  land  disturbed  by  brawl  and  riot. 
But  ye  know  not  all:  God  makes  man's  hearth  man's  altar— our 
hearths  were  polluted ;  our  wives  and  daughters  were  viewed  as 
harlots;  and  lechery  ruled  the  realm.  A  king's  word  should 
be  fast  as  the  pillars  of  the  world.  What  man  ever  trusted 
Edward  and  was  not  deceived?  Even  now  the  unknightly  liar 
stands  in  arms  with  the  weight  of  perjury  on  his  soul.  In  his 
father's  town  of  York,  ye  know  that  he  took,  three  short  weeks 
since,  solemn  oath  of  fealty  to  King  Henry.  And  now  King 
Henry  is  his  captive,  and  King  Henry's  holy  crown  upon  his 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  577 

traitor's  head — 'traitors'  calls  he  its?  What  name,  then,  rank 
enough  for  him?  Edward  gave  the  promise  of  a  brave  man, 
and  I  served  him.  He  proved  a  base,  a  false,  a  licentious,  and 
a  cruel  king,  and  I  forsook  him;  may  all  free  hearts  in  all  free 
lands  so  serve  kings  when  they  become  tyrants !  Ye  fight 
against  a  cruel  and  atrocious  usurper,  whose  bold  hand  cannot 
sanctify  a  black  heart — ye  fight  not  only  for  King  Henry,  the 
meek  and  the  godly — ye  fight  not  for  him  alone,  but  for  his 
young  and  princely  son,  the  grandchild  of  Henry  of  Agin- 
court,  who  old  men  tell  me,  has  that  hero's  face,  and  who,  I 
know,  has  that  hero's  frank  and  royal  and  noble  soul — ye  fight 
for  the  freedom  of  your  land,  for  the  honor  of  your  women, 
for  what  is  better  than  any  king's  cause — for  justice  and 
mercy — for  truth  and  manhood's  virtues  against  corruption  in 
the  laws,  slaughter  by  the  scaffold,  falsehood  in  a  ruler's  lips, 
and  shameless  harlotry  in  the  councils  of  ruthless  power.  The 
order  I  have  ever  given  in  war,  I  give  now ;  we  war  against  the 
leaders  of  evil,  not  against  the  hapless  tools;  we  war  against 
our  oppressors,  not  against  our  misguided  brethren.  Strike 
down  every  plumed  crest,  but  when  the  strife  is  over,  spare 
every  common  man !  Hark !  while  I  speak,  I  hear  the  march 
of  your  foe!  Up  standards! — blow  trumpets!  And  now,  as  I 
brace  my  bassinet,  may  God  grant  us  all  a  glorious  victory,  or 
a  glorious  grave.  On,  my  merry  men!  show  these  London 
loons  the  stout  hearts  of  Warwickshire  and  Yorkshire.  On, 
my  merry  men!  A  Warwick!  A  Warwick!" 

As  he  ended,  he  swung  lightly  over  his  head  the  terrible 
battle-axe  which  had  smitten  down,  as  the  grass  before  the 
reaper,  the  chivalry  of  many  a  field ;  and  ere  the  last  blast  of 
the  trumpets  died,  the  troops  of  Warwick  and  of  Gloucester 
met,  and  mingled  hand  to  hand. 

Although  the  Earl  had,  on  discovering  the  position  of  the 
enemy,  moved  some  of  his  artillery  from  his  right  wing,  yet 
there  still  lay  the  great  number  and  strength  of  his  force.  And 
there,  therefore,  Montagu,  rolling  troop  on  troop  to  the  aid  of 
Oxford,  pressed  so  overpoweringly  upon  the  soldiers  under 
Hastings,  that  the  battle  very  soon  wore  a  most  unfavorable 
aspect  for  the  Yorkists.  It  seemed,  indeed,  that  the  success 
which  had  always  hitherto  attended  the  military  movements  of 
Montagu  was  destined  for  a  crowning  triumph.  Stationed,  as 
we  have  said,  in  the  rear,  with  his  light-armed  squires,  upon 
fleet  steeds,  around  him,  he  moved  the  springs  of  the  battle 
with  the  calm  sagacity  which  at  that  moment  no  chief  in  either 
army  possessed.  Hastings  was  thoroughly  outflanked,  and 


578  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

though  his  men  fought  with  great  valor,  they  could  not  resist 
the  weight  of  superior  numbers. 

In  the  midst  of  the  carnage  in  the  centre,  Edward  reined  in 
his  steed,  as  he  heard  the  cry  of  victory  in  the  gale: 

"By  heaven!"  he  exclaimed,  "our  men  at  the  left  are  cra- 
vens— they  fly!  they  fly!  Ride  to  Lord  Hastings,  Sir  Hum- 
phrey Bourchier,  bid  him  defile  hither  what  men  are  left  him ; 
and  now,  ere  our  fellows  are  well  aware  what  hath  chanced 
yonder,  charge  we,  knights  and  gentlemen,  on,  on! — break 
Somerset's  line;  on,  on,  to  the  heart  of  the  rebel  Earl!" 

Then,  visor  closed,  lance  in  rest,  Edward  and  his  cavalry 
dashed  through  the  archers  and  billmen  of  Somerset;  clad  in 
complete  mail,  impervious  to  the  weapons  of  the  infantry,  they 
slaughtered  as  they  rode,  and  their  way  was  marked  by  corpses 
and  streams  of  blood.  Fiercest  and  fellest  of  all,  was  Edward 
himself;  when  his  lance  shivered,  and  he  drew  his  knotty  mace 
from  its  sling  by  his  saddle  bow,  woe  to  all  who  attempted  to 
stop  his  path.  Vain  alike  steel  helmet  or  leathern  cap,  jerkin 
or  coat  of  mail.  In  vain  Somerset  threw  himself  into  the  melee. 
The  instant  Edward  and  his  cavalry  had  made  a  path  through 
the  lines  for  his  foot-soldiery,  the  fortunes  of  the  day  were  half- 
retrieved.  It  was  no  rapid  passage,  pierced  and  reclosed,  that 
he  desired  to  effect,  it  was  the  wedge  in  the  oak  of  war.  There, 
rooted  in  the  very  midst  of  Somerset's  troops,  doubling  on  each 
side,  passing  on  but  to  return  again,  where  helm  could  be 
crashed  and  man  overthrown,  the  mighty  strength  of  Edward 
widened  the  breach  more  and  more,  till  faster  and  faster  poured 
in  his  bands,  and  the  centre  of  Warwick's  army  seemed  to  reel 
and  whirl  round  the  broadening  gap  through  its  ranks,  as  the 
waves  round  some  chasm  in  a  maelstrom. 

But  in  the  interval,  the  hard-pressed  troops  commanded  by 
Hastings  were  scattered  and  dispersed;  driven  from  the  field, 
they  fled  in  numbers  through  the  town  of  Barnet ;  many  halted 
not  till  they  reached  London,  where  they  spread  the  news  of 
the  Earl's  victory  and  Edward's  ruin.* 

Through  the  mist,  Friar  Bungey  discerned  the  fugitive  York- 
ists under  Hastings,  and  heard  their  cries  of  despair:  through 
the  mist,  Sibyll  saw,  close  beneath  the  entrenchments  which 
protected  the  space  on  which  they  stood,  an  armed  horseman 
with  the  well-known  crest  of  Hastings  on  his  helmet,  and,  with 
lifted  visor,  calling  his  men  to  the  return,  in  the  loud  voice  of 
rage  and  scorn.  And  then,  she  herself  sprang  forwards,  and 
forgetting  his  past  cruelty  in  his  present  danger,  cried  his 

*  Sharon  Turner.. 


THE   LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  579 

name — weak  cry,  lost  in  the  roar  of  war!  But  the  friar,  now 
fearing  he  had  taken  the  wrong  side,  began  to  turn  from  his 
spells,  to  address  the  most  abject  apologies  to  Adam,  to  assure 
him  that  he  would  have  been  slaughtered  at  the  Tower,  but 
for  the  friar's  interruption;  and  that  the  rope  round  his  neck 
was  but  an  insignificant  ceremony  due  to  the  prejudices  of  the 
soldiers.  "Alas,  Great  Man,"  he  concluded;  "I  see  still  that 
thou  art  mightier  than  I  am ;  thy  charms,  though  silent,  are 
more  potent  than  mine,  though  my  lungs  crack  beneath  them! 
Confusio  Inimids  Taralorolu, — I  mean  no  harm  to  the  Earl — 
Garrabora,  mistes  et  nubes — Lord,  what  will  become  of  me!" 

Meanwhile,  Hastings,  with  a  small  body  of  horse  who,  being 
composed  of  knights  and  squires,  specially  singled  out  for  the 
sword,  fought  with  the  pride  of  disdainful  gentlemen  and  the 
fury  of  desperate  soldiers,  finding  it  impossible  to  lure  back  the  fu- 
gitives, hewed  their  own  way  through  Oxford's  ranks  to  the  cen- 
tre, where  they  brought  fresh  aid  to  the  terrible  arm  of  Edward. 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE    BATTLE. 

THE  mist  still  continued  so  thick  that  Montagu  was  unable 
to  discern  the  general  prospects  of  the  field.  But,  calm  and 
resolute  in  his  post,  amidst  the  arrows  which  whirled  round 
him,  and  often  struck,  blunted,  against  his  Milan  mail,  the 
Marquis  received  the  reports  of  his  aide-de-camps  (may  that 
modern  word  be  pardoned?)  as,  one  after  one,  they  emerged 
through  the  fog  to  his  side. 

"Well,"  he  said,  as  one  of  these  messengers  now  spurred  to 
the  spot,  "we  have  beaten  off  Hastings  and  his  hirelings;  but 
I  see  not  'the  Silver  Star'  of  Lord  Oxford's  banner."  * 

"Lord  Oxford,  my  lord,  has  followed  the  enemy  he  routed 
to  the  farthest  verge  of  the  heath." 

"Saints  help  us!  Is  Oxford  thus  headstrong?  He  will  ruin 
all  if  he  be  decoyed  from  the  field!  Ride  back,  sir!  Yet — 
hold!"  as  another  of  the  aide-de-camps  appeared.  "What  news 
from  Lord  Warwick's  wing?" 

"Sore  beset,  bold  Marquis.  Gloucester's  line  seems  count- 
less; it  already  outflanks  the  Earl.  The  Duke  himself  seems 
inspired  by  hell !  Twice  has  his  slight  arm  braved  even  the 
Earl's  battle-axe,  which  spared  the  boy  but  smote  to  the  dust 
his  comrades!" 

*  The  Silver  Star  of  the  De  Veres  had  its  origin  in  a  tradition  that  one  of  their  ancestors, 
when  fighting  in  the  Holy  Land,  saw  a  falling  star  descend  upon  his  shield.  Fatal  to  men 
»9b)er  even  than  the  De  Veres,  was  that  silver  (ailing  star. 


580  THE    LAST    OF    THF,    RARONS. 

"Well,  and  what  of  the  centre,  sir?"  as  a  third  form  now 
arrived. 

"There,  rages  Edward  in  person.  He  hath  pierced  into  the 
midst.  But  Somerset  still  holds  on  gallantly!" 

Montagu  turned  to  the  first  aide-de-camp. 

"Ride,  sir!  Quirk!  This  to  Oxford — No  pursuit!  Bid 
him  haste,  with  all  his  men,  to  the  left  wing,  and  smite  Glou- 
cester in  the  rear.  Ride,  ride — for  life  and  victory !  If  he 
come  but  in  time,  the  day  is  ours!"  * 

The  aide-de-camp  darted  off,  and  the  mist  swallowed  up 
horse  and  horseman. 

"Sound  trumpets  to  the  return!"  said  the  Marquis;  then, 
after  a  moment's  musing:  "Though  Oxford  hath  drawn  off 
our  main  force  of  cavalry,  we  have  still  some  stout  lances  left; 
and  Warwick  must  be  strengthened.  Onto  the  Earl!  Laissez 
alter!  A  Montagu!  a  Montagu!"  And  lance  in  rest,  the 
Marquis,  and  the  knights  immediately  around  him,  and  hitherto 
not  personally  engaged,  descended  the  hillock  at  a  hand  gallop, 
and  were  met  by  a  troop  outnumbering  their  own,  and  com- 
manded by  the  Lords  D'Eyncourt  and  Say. 

At  this  time,  Warwick  was  indeed  in  the  same  danger  that 
had  routed  the  troops  of  Hastings;  for,  by  a  similar  position, 
the  strength  of  the  hostile  numbers  being  arrayed  with  Glou- 
cester, the  Duke's  troops  had  almost  entirely  surrounded  him.f 
And  Gloucester  himself  wondrously  approved  the  trust  that 
had  consigned  to  his  stripling  arm  the  flower  of  the  Yorkist 
army.  Through  the  mists,  the  blood-red  manteline  he  wore 
over  his  mail,  the  grinning  teeth  of  the  boar's  head  which 
crested  his  helmet  flashed  and  gleamed  wherever  his  presence 
was  most  needed  to  encourage  the  flagging  or  spur  on  the  fierce. 
And  there  seemed  to  both  armies  something  ghastly  and  pre- 
ternatural in  the  savage  strength  of  this  small,  slight  figure  thus 
startlingly  caparisoned,  and  which  was  heard  evermore  utter- 
ing its  sharp  war-cry:  "Gloucester,  to  the  onslaught!  Down 
with  the  rebels,  down!" 

Nor  did  this  daring  personage  disdain,  in  the  midst  of  his 
fury,  to  increase  the  effect  of  valor  by  the  art  of  a  brain  that 
never  ceased  to  scheme  on  the  follies  of  mankind.  "See!  see!" 
he  cried,  as  he  shot  meteor-like  from  rank  to  rank.  "See — 
these  are  no  natural  vapors!  Yonder  the  mighty  friar,  who  de- 
layed the  sails  of  Margaret,  chants  his  spells  to  the  Powers  that 
ride  the  gale.  Fear  not  the  bombards — their  enchanted  balls 
swerve  from  the  brave!  The  dark  legions  of  Air  fight  for  us! 

*  Fabyan.  t  Sharon  Turner. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  58 v 

For  the  hour  is  come  when  the  fiend  shall  rend  his  prey!1' 
And  fiendlike  seemed  the  form  thus  screeching  forth  its  predic- 
tions from  under  the  grim  headgear;  and  then  darting  and 
disappearing  amidst  the  sea  of  pikes,  cleaving  its  path  of  blood ! 

But  still  the  untiring  might  of  Warwick  defied  the  press  of 
numbers  that  swept  round  him,  tide  upon  tide.  Through  the 
mists,  his  black  armor,  black  plume,  black  steed,  gloomed  forth 
like  one  thundercloud  in  the  midst  of  a  dismal  heaven.  The 
noble  charger  bore  along  that  mighty  rider,  animating,  guiding 
all,  with  as  much  ease  and  lightness  as  the  racer  bears  its  puny 
weight;  the  steed  itself  was  scarce  less  terrible  to  encounter  than 
the  sweep  of  the  rider's  ax.  Protected  from  arrow  and  lance 
by  a  coat  of  steel,  the  long  chaffron  or  pike  which  projected 
from  its  barbed  frontal  dropped  with  gore  as  it  scoured  along. 
No  line  of  men,  however  serried,  could  resist  the  charge  of 
that  horse  and  horseman.  And  vain  even  Gloucester's  daunt- 
less presence  and  thrilling  battle-cry,  when  the  stout  Earl  was 
seen  looming  through  the  vapor,  and  his  cheerful  shout  was 
heard:  "My  merry  men,  fight  on!" 

For  a  third  time,  Gloucester,  spurring  forth  from  his  recoil- 
ing and  shrinking  followers,  bending  low  over  his  saddle  bow, 
covered  by  his  shield,  and  with  the  tenth  lance  (his  favorite 
weapon,  because  the  one  in  which  skill  best  supplied  strength) 
he  had  borne  that  day,  launched  himself  upon  the  vast  bulk  of 
his  tremendous  foe.  With  that  dogged  energy,  that  rapid  cal- 
culation which  made  the  basis  of  his  character,  and  which  ever 
clove  through  all  obstacles  at  the  one  that  if  destroyed,  destroyed 
the  rest,^-in  that  his  first  great  battle,  as  in  his  last  at  Bosworth, 
he  singled  out  the  leader,  and  rushed  upon  the  giant  as  the 
mastiff  on  the  horns  and  dewlap  of  the  bull.  Warwick,  in  the 
broad  space  which  his  arm  had  made  around  him  in  the  car- 
nage, reined  in  as  he  saw  the  foe,  and  recognized  the  griesly  cog- 
nizance and  scarlet  mantle  of  his  godson.  And  even  in  that 
moment,  with  all  his  heated  blood,  and  his  remembered  wrong, 
and  his  imminent  peril,  his  generous  and  lion  heart  felt  a 
glow  of  adrriration  at  the  valor  of  the  boy  he  had  trained  to 
arms — of  the  son  of  the  beloved  York.  "His  father  little 
thought,"  muttered  the  Earl,  "that  that  arm  should  win  glory 
against  his  old  friend's  life!"  And  as  the  half-uttered  word 
died  on  his  lips,  the  well-poised  lance  of  Gloucester  struck  full 
upon  his  bassinet,  and,  despite  the  Earl's  horsemanship  and 
his  strength,  made  him  reel  in  his  saddle,  while  the  Prince 
shot  by,  and  suddenly  wheeling  round,  cast  away  the  shivered 
lance,  and  assailed  him  sword  in  hand. 


j82  Till.    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

"Back,  Richard — boy,  back!"  said  the  Earl,  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  hollow  through  his  helmet:  "It  is  not  against  thee 
that  my  wrongs  call  for  blood — pass  on!" 

"Not  so,  Lord  Warwick,"  answered  Richard,  in  a  sobered 
and  almost  solemn  voice,  dropping  for  the  moment  the  point 
of  his  sword,  and  raising  his  visor,  that  he  might  be  the  better 
heard:  "On  the  field  of  battle  all  memories,  sweet  in  peace, 
must  die!  St.  Paul  be  my  judge,  that  even  in  this  hour  I  love 
you  well;  but  I  love  renown  and  glory  more.  On  the  edge  of 
my  sword  sit  power  and  royalty,  and  what  high  souls  prize 
most — ambition:  these  would  nerve  me  against  mine  own 
brother's  breast,  were  that  breast  my  barrier  to  an  illustrious 
future.  Thou  hast  given  thy  daughter  to  another!  I  smite 
the  father,  to  regain  my  bride.  Lay  on,  and  spare  not! — for 
he  who  hates  thee  most  would  prove  not  so  fell  a  foe  as  the  man 
who  sees  his  fortunes  made  or  marred — his  love  crushed  or 
yet  crowned,  as  this  day's  battle  closes  in  triumph  or  defeat. 
REBEL,  DEFEND  THYSELF!" 

No  time  was  left  for  further  speech;  for  as  Richard's  sword 
descended,  two  of  Gloucester's  followers,  Parr  and  Milwater 
by  name,  dashed  from  the  halting  lines  at  the  distance,  and 
bore  down  to  their  young  Prince's  aid.  At  the  same  moment, 
Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile  and  the  Lord  Fitzhugh  spurred  from 
the  opposite  line;  and  thus  encouraged,  the  band  on  either 
side  came  boldly  forward,  and  the  melee  grew  fierce  and  general. 
But  still  Richard's  sword  singled  out  the  Earl,  and  still  the  Earl, 
parrying  his  blows,  dealt  his  own  upon  meaner  heads.  Crushed 
by  one  swoop  of  the  axe  fell  Milwater  to  the  earth;  down  as 
again  it  swung  on  high,  fell  Sir  Humphrey  Bourchier,  who  had 
just  arrived  to  Gloucester  with  messages  from  Edward,  never 
uttered  in  the  world  below.  Before  Marmaduke's  lance  felf  Sir 
Thomas  Parr;  and  these  three  corpses  making  a  barrier  be- 
tween Gloucester  and  the  Earl,  the  Duke  turned  fiercely  upon 
Marmaduke,  while  the  Earl,  wheeling  round,  charged  into  the 
midst  of  the  hostile  line,  which  scattered  to  the  right  and  left. 

"On!  my  merry  men,  on!"  rang  once  more  through  the 
heavy  air.  "They  give  way — the  London  tailors,1 — on!"  and 
on  dashed,  with  their  joyous  cry,  the  merry  men  of  York- 
shire and  Warwick,  the  warrior-yeomen!  Separated  thus  from 
his  great  foe,  Gloucester,  after  unhorsing  Marmaduke,  galloped 
off  to  sustain  that  part  of  his  following  which  began  to  waver 
and  retreat  before  the  rush  of  Warwick  and  his  chivalry. 

This,  in  truth,  was  the  regiment  recruited  from  the  loyalty 
of  London,  and  little  accustomed,  we  trow,  were  the  worthy 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  583 

heroes  of  Cockaigne  to  the  discipline  of  arms  nor  trained  to  that 
stubborn  resistance  which  makes,  under  skilful  leaders,  the  Eng- 
lish peasants  the  most  enduring  soldiery  that  the  world  has 
known  since  the  day  when  the  Roman  sentinel  perished  amidst 
the  falling  columns  and  lava  floods,*  rather  than,  though  society 
itself  dissolved,  forsake  his  post  unbidden.  "St  Thomas  de- 
fend us!"  muttered  a  worthy  tailor,  who  in  the  flush  of  his 
valor,  when  safe  in  the  Chepe,  had  consented  to  bear  the  rank  of 
lieutenant,  "it  is  not  reasonable  to  expect  men  of  pith  and  sub- 
stance to  be  crushed  into  jellies,  and  carved  into  subtleties  by 
horse-hoofs  and  pole-axes.  Right  about  face!  Fly!" — and 
throwing  down  his  sword  and  shield,  the  lieutenant  fairly  took 
to  his  heels  as  he  saw  the  charging  column,  headed  by  the 
raven  steed  of  Warwick,  come  giant-like  through  the  fog.  The 
terror  of  one  man  is  contagious,  and  the  Londoners  actually 
turned  their  backs,  when  Nicholas  Alwyn  cried,  in  his  shrill 
voice  and  northern  accent:  "Out  on  you!  What  will  the 
girls  say  of  us  in  East-gate  and  the  Chepe?  Hurrah  for  the 
bold  hearts  of  London!  Round  me,  stout  'prentices!  let  the 
boys  shame  the  men!  This  shaft  for  Cockaigne!"  And  as 
the  troop  turned  irresolute,  and  Alwyn's  arrow  left  his  bow, 
they  saw  a  horseman  by  the  side  of  Warwick  reel  in  his  saddle 
and  fall  at  once  to  the  earth,  and  so  great  evidently  was  the 
rank  of  the  fallen  man,  that  even  Warwick  reined  in,  and  the 
charge  halted  midway  in  its  career.  It  was  no  less  a  person 
than  the  Duke  of  Exeter  whom  Alwyn's  shaft  had  disabled  for 
the  field.  This  incident,  coupled  with  the  hearty  address  of 
the  stout  goldsmith,  served  to  reanimate  the  flaggers,  and  Glou- 
cester, by  a  circuitous  route,  reaching  their  line  a  moment 
after,  they  dressed  their  ranks,  and  a  flight  of  arrows  followed 
their  loud  "Hurrah  for  London  Town!" 

But  the  charge  of  Warwick  had  only  halted,  and  (while  the 
wounded  Exeter  was  borne  back  by  his  squires  to  the  rear)  it 
dashed  into  the  midst  of  the  Londoners,  threw  their  whole  line 
into  confusion,  and  drove  them,  despite  all  the  efforts  of 
Gloucester,  far  back  along  the  plain.  This  well-timed  exploit 
served  to  extricate  the  Earl  from  the  main  danger  of  his  posi- 
tion ;  and  hastening  to  improve  his  advantage,  he  sent  forth- 
with to  command  the  reserved  forces  under  Lord  St.  John,  the 
Knight  of  Lytton,  Sir  John  Coniers,  Dymoke,  and  Robert 
Hilyard,  to  bear  down  to  his  aid. 

At  this  time  Edward  had  succeeded,  after  a  most  stubborn 
fight,  in  effecting  a  terrible  breach  through  Somerset's  wing; 

*  At  Pompeii. 


584  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARO.NS. 

and  the  fogs  continued  still  so  dense  and  mirk,  that  his  foe 
itself,  for  Somerset  had  prudently  drawn  back  to  re-form  his 
disordered  squadron,  seemed  vanished  from  the  field.  Halt- 
ing now,  as  through  the  dim  atmosphere  came  from  different 
quarters  the  many  battle-cries  of  that  feudal  day,  by  which 
alone  he  could  well  estimate  the  strength  or  weakness  of  those 
in  the  distance,  his  calmer  genius  as  a  general  cooled,  for  a 
time,  his  individual  ferocity  of  knight  and  soldier.  He  took 
his  helmet  from  his  brow,  to  listen  with  greater  certainty;  and 
the  lords  and  riders  round  him  were  well  content  to  take  breath 
and  pause  from  the  weary  slaughter. 

The  cry  of  "Gloucester  to  the  onslaught!"  was  heard  no 
more.  Feebler  and  feebler,  scatteringly  as  it  were,  and  here  and 
there,  the  note  had  changed  into  "Gloucester  to  the  rescue  /" 

Farther  off,  rose  mingled  and  blent  together,  the  opposing 
shouts  "A  Montagu! — a  Montagu!" — "Strike for  D'Eyncourt 
and  King  Edward!" — "A  Say — a  Say!" 

"Ha!"  said  Edward  thoughtfully,  "bold  Gloucester  fails- 
Montagu  is  bearing  on  to  Warwick's  aid — Say  and  D'Eyncour? 
stop  his  path.  Our  doom  looks  dark !  Ride,  Hastings — ride ! 
retrieve  thy  laurels,  and  bring  up  the  reserve  under  Clarence. 
But  hark  ye,  leave  not  his  side — he  may  desert  again !  Ho !  ho ! 
Again,  'Gloucester  to  the  rescue!'  Ah!  how  lustily  sounds 
the  cry  of  'Warwick'!  By  the  flaming  sword  of  St.  Michael 
we  will  slacken  that  haughty  shout,  or  be  evermore  dumb  our- 
self,  ere  the  day  be  an  hour  nearer  to  the  eternal  judgment!" 

Deliberately  Edward  rebraced  his  helm,  and  settled  himself  in 
his  saddle,  and  with  his  knights  riding  close  each  to  each,  that 
they  might  not  lose  themselves  in  the  darkness,  regained  his 
infantry  and  led  them  on  to  the  quarter  where  the  war  now 
raged  fiercest,  round  the  black  steed  of  Warwick  and  the 
blood-red  manteline  of  the  fiery  Richard. 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    BATTLE. 

IT  was  now  scarcely  eight  in  the  morning,  though  the  battle 
nad  endured  three  hours;  and  as  yet  victory  so  inclined  to  the 
Earl,  that  nought  but  some  dire  mischance  could  turn  the 
scale.  Montagu  had  cut  his  way  to  Warwick,  Somerset  had 
re-established  his  array.  The  fresh  vigor  brought  by  the  Earl's 
reserve  had  well-nigh  completed  his  advantage  over  Glouces- 
ter's wing.  The  new  infantry  under  Hilyard,  the  unexhausted 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  585 

riders  under  Sir  John  Coniers  and  his  knightly  compeers,  were 
dealing  fearful  havoc,  as  they  cleared  the  plain ;  and  Glouces- 
ter, fighting  inch  by  inch,  no  longer  outnumbering  but  outnurn> 
bered,  was  driven  nearer  and  nearer  towards  the  town,  when 
'suddenly  a  pale,  sickly,  and  ghost-like  ray  of  sunshine,  rather 
resembling  the  watery  gleam  of  a  waning  moon  than  the  radi- 
ance of  the  Lord  of  Light,  broke  through  the  mists,  and 
showed  to  the  Earl's  eager  troops  the  banner  and  badges  of  a 
new  array  hurrying  to  the  spot.  "Behold,"  cried  the  young 
Lord  Fitzhugh,  "the  standard  and  the  badge  of  the  Usurper — 
a  silver  sun!  Edward  himself  is  delivered  into  our  hands! 
Upon  them — bill  and  pike,  lance  and  brand,  shaft  and  bolt! 
Upon  them,  and  crown  the  day!" 

The  same  fatal  error  was  shared  by  Hilyard,  as  he  caught 
sight  of  the  advancing  troop,  with  their  silver  cognizance. 
He  gave  the  word,  and  every  arrow  left  its  string.  At  the 
same  moment,  as  both  horse  and  foot  assailed  the  fancied  foe, 
the  momentary  beam  vanished  from  the  heaven,  the  two  forces 
mingled  in  the  sullen  mists,  when,  after  a  brief  conflict,  a  sud- 
den and  horrible  cry  of  "Treason!  Treason!"  resounded 
from  either  band.  The  shining  star  of  Oxford,  returning  from 
the  pursuit,  had  been  mistaken  for  Edward's  cognizance  of  the 
sun.*  Friend  was  slaughtering  friend,  and  when  the  error  was 
detected,  each  believed  the  other  had  deserted  to  the  foe.  In 
vain,  here  Montagu  and  Warwick,  and  there  Oxford  and  his 
captains  sought  to  dispel  the  confusion,  and  unite  those  whose 
blood  had  been  fired  against  each  other.  While  yet  in  doubt, 
confusion,  and  dismay,  rushed  full  into  the  centre  Edward  of 
York  himself,  with  his  knights  and  riders;  and  his  tossing  ban- 
ners, scarcely  even  yet  distinguished  from  Oxford's  starry  en- 
signs, added  to  the  general  incertitude  and  panic.  Loud  in 
the  midst  rose  Edward's  trumpet-voice,  while  through  the 
midst,  like  one  crest  of  foam  upon  a  roaring  sea,  danced  his 
plume  of  snow.  Hark!  again,  again — near  and  nearer — the 
tramp  of  steeds,  the  clash  of  steel,  the  whiz  and  hiss  of  arrows, 
the  shout  of  "Hastings  to  the  onslaught!"  Fresh,  and  pant- 
ing for  glory  and  for  blood,  came  on  King  Edward's  large  re- 
serve :  from  all  the  scattered  parts  of  the  field  spurred  the  York- 
ist knights,  where  the  uproar,  so  much  mightier  than  before, 
told  them  that  the  crisis  of  the  war  was  come.  Thither,  as 
vultures  to  the  carcase,  they  flocked  and  wheeled;  thither 
D'Eyncourt,  and  Lovell,  and  Cromwell's  bloody  sword,  and 
Say's  knotted  mace ;  and  thither,  again  rallying  his  late  half- 

*  Cont.  Croyl.,  555  ;  Fabyan,  Habington,  Hume,  S.  Turner. 


586  THE    LAST    OK    THE    BARONS. 

beaten  myrmidons,  the  grim  Gloucester,  his  helmet  bruised  and 
dinted,  but  the  boar's  teeth  still  gnashing  wrath  and  horror 
from  the  griesly  crest.  But  direst  and  most  hateful  of  all  in 
the  eyes  of  the  yet  undaunted  Earl,  thither,  plainly  visible, 
riding  scarcely  a  yard  before  him,  with  the  cognizance  of  Clare 
wrought  on  his  gay  mantle,  and  in  all  the  pomp  and  bravery 
of  a  holiday  suit,  came  the  perjured  Clarence.  Conflict  now 
it  could  scarce  be  called :  as  well  might  the  Dane  have  rolled 
back  the  sea  from  his  footstool,  as  Warwick  and  his  disordered 
troop  (often  and  aye,  dazzled  here  by  Oxford's  star,  there  by 
Edward's  sun,  dealing  random  blows  against  each  other)  have 
resisted  the  general  whirl  and  torrent  of  the  surrounding  foe. 
To  add  to  the  rout,  Somerset  and  the  onguard  of  his  wing  had 
been  marching  towards  the  Earl  at  the  very  time  that  the  cry 
of  "treason"  had  struck  their  ears,  and  Edward's  charge  was 
made;  these  men,  nearly  all  Lancastrians,  and  ever  doubting 
Montagu,  if  not  Warwick,  with  the  example  of  Clarence  and 
the  Archbishop  of  York  fresh  before  them,  lost  heart  at  once — 
Somerset  himself  headed  the  flight  of  his  force. 

"All  is  lost!"  said  Montagu,  as  side  by  side  with  Warwick  the 
brothers  fronted  the  foe,  and  for  one  moment  stayed  the  rush. 

"Not  yet,"  returned  the  Earl;  "a  band  of  my  northern 
archers  still  guard  yon  wood — I  know  them — they  will  fight  to 
the  last  gasp !  Thither  then,  with  what  men  we  may.  You 
so  marshall  our  soldiers,  and  I  will  make  good  the  retreat. 
Where  is  Sir  Marmaduke  Nevile?" 

"Here!" 

"Horsed  again,  young  cousin!  I  give  thee  a  perilous  com- 
mission. Take  the  path  down  the  hill ;  the  mists  thicken  in 
the  hollows,  and  may  hide  thee.  Overtake  Somerset — he  hath 
fled  westward,  and  tell  him,  from  me,  if  he  can  yet  rally  but  one 
troop  of  horse — but  one — and  charge  Edward  suddenly  in  the 
rear,  he  will  yet  redeem  all.  If  he  refuse,  the  ruin  of  his  King, 
and  the  slaughter  of  the  brave  men  he  deserts,  be  on  his  head! 
Swift — ct  tout  bride,  Marmaduke.  Yet  one  word,"  added  the 
Earl,  in  a  whisper — "if  you  fail  with  Somerset  come  not  back, 
make  to  the  Sanctuary.  You  are  too  young  to  die,  cousin! 
Away! — keep  to  the  hollows  of  the  chase." 

As  the  knight  vanished  Warwick  turned  to  his  comrades: 
"Bold  nephew  Fitzhugh,  and  ye  brave  riders,  round  me — so, 
we  are  fifty  knights!  Haste  thou,  Montagu,  to  the  wood! — 
the  wood ! ' ' 

So  noble  in  that  hero  age  was  the  Individual,  MAN,  even 
amid?t  the  multitudes  massed  by  war,  that  history  vies  with 


THE    I,AST    OF    THE    BARONS.  587 

romance  in  showing  how  far  a  single  sword  could  redress  the 
scale  of  war.  While  Montagu,  with  rapid  dexterity,  and  a 
voice  yet  promising  victory,  drew  back  the  remnant  of  the 
lines,  and  in  serried  order  retreated  to  the  outskirts  of  the 
wood,  Warwick  and  his  band  of  knights  protected  the  move- 
ment from  the  countless  horsemen  who  darted  forth  from  Ed- 
ward's swarming  and  momently  thickening  ranks.  Now  divid- 
ing and  charging  singly — now  rejoining — and  breast  to  breast, 
they  served  to  divert  and  perplex  and  harass  the  eager  enemy. 
And  never  in  all  his  wars,  in  all  the  former  might  of  his  indom- 
itable arm,  had  Warwick  so  excelled  the  martial  chivalry  of  his 
age,  as  in  that  eventful  and  crowning  hour.  Thrice  almost 
alone,  he  penetrated  into  the  very  centre  of  Edward's  body- 
guard, literally  felling  to  the  earth  all  before  him.  Then  per- 
ished by  his  battle-axe  Lord  Cromwell,  and  the  redoubted 
Lord  of  Say — then,  no  longer  sparing  even  the  old  affection, 
Gloucester  was  hurled  to  the  ground.  The  last  time  he  pene- 
trated even  to  Edward  himself,  smiting  down  the  King's  stand- 
ard-bearer, unhorsing  Hastings,  who  threw  himself  on  his  path; 
and  Edward,  setting  his  teeth  in  stern  joy  as  he  saw  him,  rose 
in  his  stirrups,  and  for  a  moment  the  mace  of  the  King,  the 
axe  of  the  Earl,  met  as  thunder  encounters  thunder;  but  then 
a  hundred  knights  rushed  into  the  rescue,  and  robbed  the 
baffled  avenger  of  his  prey.  Thus  charging  and  retreating, 
driving  back,  with  each  charge,  far  and  farther  the  mighty  mul- 
titude hounding  on  to  the  lion's  death,  this  great  chief  and  his 
devoted  knights,  though  terribly  reduced  in  number,  succeeded 
at  last  in  covering  Montagu's  skilful  retreat;  and  when  they 
gained  the  outskirts  of  the  wood,  and  dashed  through  the  nar- 
row opening  between  the  barricades,  the  Yorkshire  archers 
approved  their  Lord's  trust,  and,  shouting  as  to  a  marriage 
feast,  hailed  his  coming. 

But  few,  alas!  of  his  fellow-horsemen  had  survived  that  mar- 
vellous enterprise  of  valor  and  despair.  Of  the  fifty  knights 
who  had  shared  its  perils,  eleven  only  gained  the  wood ;  and, 
though  in  this  number  the  most  eminent  (save  Sir  John  Con- 
iers,  either  slain  or  fled),  might  be  found — their  horses,  more 
exposed  than  themselves,  were  for  the  most  part  wounded  and 
unfit  for  further  service.  At  this  time  the  sun  again,  and  sud- 
denly as  before,  broke  forth — not  now  with  a  feeble  glimmer, 
but  a  broad  and  almost  a  cheerful  beam,  which  sufficed  to  give 
a  fuller  view  than  the  day  had  yet  afforded  of  the  state  and 
prospects  of  the  field. 

To  the  right  and  to  the  left,  what  remained  of  the  cavalry  of 


588  THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS. 

Warwick  were  seen  flying  fast — gone  the  lances  of  Oxford,  the 
bills  of  Somerset.  Exeter,  pierced  by  the  shaft  of  Alwyn,  was 
lying  cold  and  insensible,  remote  from  the  contest,  and  de- 
serted even  by  his  squires. 

In  front  of  the  archers,  and  such  men  as  Montagu  had  saved 
from  the  sword,  halted  the  immense  and  murmuring  multitude 
of  Edward,  their  thousand  banners  glittering  in  the  sudden 
sun;  for,  as  Edward  beheld  the  last  wrecks  of  his  foe,  sta- 
tioned near  the  covert,  his  desire  of  consummating  victory  and 
revenge  made  him  cautious,  and,  fearing  an  ambush,  he  had 
abruptly  halted. 

When  the  scanty  followers  of  the  Earl  thus  beheld  the  im- 
mense force  arrayed  for  their  destruction,  and  saw  the  extent 
of  their  danger  and  their  loss — here  the  handful,  there  the 
multitude — a  simultaneous  exclamation  of  terror  and  dismay 
broke  from  their  ranks. 

"Children!"  cried  Warwick,  "droop  not!  Henry,  at  Agin- 
court,  had  worse  odds  than  we!" 

But  the  murmur  among  the  archers,  the  lealest  part  of  the 
Earl's  retainers,  continued,  till  there  stepped  forth  their  cap- 
tain, a  gray  old  man,  but  still  sinewy  and  unbent,  the  iron  relic 
of  a  hundred  battles. 

"Back  to  your  men,  Mark  Forester!"  said  the  Earl  sternly. 

The  old  man  obeyed  not.  He  came  on  to  Warwick,  and  fell 
on  his  knees  beside  his  stirrup. 

"Fly,  my  lord,  escape  is  possible  for  you  and  your  riders 
Fly  through  the  wood,  we  will  screen  your  path  with  our 
bodies.  Your  children,  father  of  your  followers,  your  children 
of  Middleham,  ask  no  better  fate  than  to  die  for  you !  Is  it 
not  so?"  and  the  old  man,  rising,  turned  to  those  in  hearing. 
They  answered  by  a  general  acclamation. 

"Mark  Forester  speaks  well,"  said  Montagu.  "On  you  de- 
pends the  last  hope  of  Lancaster.  We  may  yet  join  Oxford 
and  Somerset!  This  way,  through  the  wood — come!"  and 
he  laid  his  hand  on  the  Earl's  rein. 

"Knights  and  sirs,"  said  the  Earl,  dismounting,  and  partially 
raising  his  visor  as  he  turned  to  the  horsemen,  "let  those  who 
will,  fly  with  Lord  Montagu !  Let  those  who,  in  a  just  cause, 
never  despair  of  victory,  nor,  even  at  the  worst,  fear  to  face 
their  Maker,  fresh  from  the  glorious  death  of  heroes,  dismount 
with  me!"  Every  knight  sprang  from  his  steed,  Montagu  the 
first.  "Comrades!"  continued  the  Earl,  then  addressing  the 
retainers,  "when  the  children  fight  for  a  father's  honor,  the 
Cather  flies  not  from  the  peril  into  which  he  has  drawn  the  chil- 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARON b.  58$ 

dren.  What  to  me  were  life,  stained  by  the  blood  of  mine  own 
beloved  retainers,  basely  deserted  by  their  chief?  Edward 
has  proclaimed  that  he  will  spare  none.  Fool!  he  gives  us, 
then,  the  superhuman  mightiness  of  despair !  To  your  bows  !-— 
one  shaft — if  it  pierce  the  joints  of  the  tyrant's  mail — one  shaft 
may  scatter  yon  army  to  the  winds !  Sir  Marmaduke  has  gone 
to  rally  noble  Somerset  and  his  riders — if  we  make  good  our 
defence  one  little  hour — the  foe  may  be  yet  smitten  in  the  rear, 
and  the  day  retrieved!  Courage  and  heart  then!"  Here  the 
Earl  lifted  his  visor  to  the  farthest  bar,  and  showed  his  cheerful 
face — "Is  this  the  face  of  a  man  who  thinks  all  hope  is  gone?" 

In  this  interval,  the  sudden  sunshine  revealed  to  King  Henry, 
where  he  stood,  the  dispersion  of  his  friends.  To  the  rear  of 
the  palisades,  which  protected  the  spot  where  he  was  placed, 
already  grouped  "the  lookers-on,  and  no  fighters,"*  as  the 
chronicler  words  it,  who,  as  the  guns  slackened,  ventured  forth 
to  learn  the  news,  and  who  now,  filling  the  churchyard  of  Had- 
L-y,  strove  hard  to  catch  a  peep  of  Henry  the  saint,  or  of  Bun- 
gey  the  sorcerer.  Mingled  with  these  gleamed  the  robes  of  the 
tymbesteres,  pressing  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  barriers,  as 
wolves,  in  the  instinct  of  blood,  come  nearer  and  nearer  round 
the  circling  watch-fire  of  some  northern  travellers.  At  this 
time  the  friar,  turning  to  one  of  the  guards  who  stood  near 
him,  said,  "The  mists  are  needed  no  more  now — King  Edward 
hath  got  the  day — eh?" 

"Certes,  great  master,"  quoth  the  guard,  "nothing  now  lacks 
to  the  King's  triumph,  except  the  death  of  the  Earl." 

"Infamous  nigromancer,  hear  that!"  cried  Bungey  to  Adam. 
"What  now  avail  thy  bombards  and  thy  talisman!  -Harkye!— 
tell  me  the  secret  of  the  last — of  the  damnable  engine  under 
my  feet,  and  I  may  spare  thy  life." 

Adam  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  impatient  disdain:  "Un- 
less I  gave  thee  my  science,  my  secret  were  profitless  to  thee. 
Villain  and  numbscull,  do  thy  worst." 

The  friar  made  a  sign  to  a  soldier  who  stood  behind  Adam, 
and  the  soldier  silently  drew  the  end  of  the  rope  which  girded 
the  scholar's  neck  round  a  bough  of  the  leafless  tree.  "Hold ! " 
whispered  the  friar,  "not  till  I  give  the  word.  The  Earl  may 
recover  himself  yet,"  he  added  to  himself.  And  therewith  he 
began  once  more  to  vociferate  his  incantations.  Meanwhile, 
the  eyes  of  Sibyll  had  turned  for  a  moment  from  her  father;  for 
the  burst  of  sunshine,  lighting  up  the  valley  below,  had  sud- 
denly given  to  her  eyes,  in  the  distance,  the  gable-ends  of  the 

*  Fabyan, 


590  i  UK    LAST    OF    THE    BARON.. 

old  farm-house,  with  the  wintry  orchard — no  longer,  alasi 
smiling  with  starry  blossoms.  Far  remote  from  the  battlefield 
was  that  abode  of  peace,  that  once  happy  home,  where  she 
had  watched  the  coming  of  the  false  one ! 

Loftier  and  holier  were  the  thoughts  of  the  fated  King.  He 
had  turned  his  face  from  the  field,  and  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  tower  of  the  church  behind.  And  while  he  so  gazed, 
the  knell  from  the  belfry  began  solemnly  to  chime.  It  was  now 
near  the  hour  of  the  Sabbath  prayers,  and  amidst  horror  and 
carnage,  still  the  holy  custom  was  not  suspended. 

"Hark!"  said  the  King  mournfully — "That  chime  sum- 
mons many  a  soul  to  God!" 

While  thus  the  scene  on  the  eminence  of  Hadley,  Edward, 
surrounded  by  Hastings,  Gloucester,  and  his  principal  captains, 
took  advantage  of  the  unexpected  sunshine,  to  scan  the  foe  and 
its  position,  with  the  eye  of  his  intuitive  genius  for  all  that  can 
slaughter  man.  "This  day,"  he  said,  "brings  no  victory, 
assures  no  crown,  if  Warwick  escape  alive.  To  you,  Lovell 
and  Ratcliffe,  I  entrust  two  hundred  knights — your  sole  care, 
the  head  of  the  rebel  Earl!" 

"And  Montagu?"  said  Ratcliffe. 

"Montagu?  Nay — poor  Montagu,  I  loved  him  as  well  once, 
as  my  own  mother's  son;  and  Montagu,"  he  muttered  to  him- 
self, ' '  I  never  wronged,  and  therefore  him  I  can  forgive !  Spare 
the  Marquis.  I  mislike  that  wood ;  they  must  have  more  force 
within  than  that  handful  on  the  skirts  betrays.  Come  hither, 
D'Eyncourt." 

And  a  few  minutes  afterwards  Warwick  and  his  men  saw  two 
parties  of  horse  leave  the  main  body — one  for  the  right  hand, 
one  the  left — followed  by  long  detachments  of  pikes,  which 
they  protected ;  and  then  the  central  array  marched  slowly  and 
steadily  on  towards  the  scanty  foe.  The  design  was  obvious — 
to  surround  on  all  sides  the  enemy,  driven  to  its  last  desperate 
bay.  But  Montagu  and  his  brother  had  not  been  idle  in  the 
breathing  pause ;  they  had  planted  the  greater  portion  of  the 
archers  skilfully  among  the  trees.  They  had  placed  their  pike- 
men  on  the  verges  of  the  barricades,  made  by  sharp  stakes  and 
fallen  timber,  and  where  their  rampart  was  unguarded  by  the  pass 
which  had  been  left  free  for  the  horsemen,  Hilyard  and  his  stout- 
est fellows  took  their  post,  filling  the  gap  with  breasts  of  iron. 

And  now,  as  with  horns  and  clarions — with  a  sea  of  plumes, 
and  spears,  and  pennons,  the  multitudinous  deathsmen  came  on, 
Warwick,  towering  in  the  front,  not  one  feather  on  his  eagle 
crest  despoiled  or  shorn,  stood,  dismounted,  his  visor  still 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS.  £9! 

raised,  by  his  renowned  steed.  Some  of  the  men  had  by  War- 
wick's order  removed  the  mail  from  the  destrier's  breast;  and 
the  noble  animal,  relieved  from  the  weight,  seemed  as  unex- 
hausted as  its  rider ;  save  where  the  champed  foam  had  be- 
specked  its  glossy  hide,  not  a  hair  was  turned ;  and  the  onguard 
of  the  Yorkists  heard  its  fiery  snort,  as  they  moved  slowly  on. 
This  figure  of  horse  and  horseman  stood  prominently  forth, 
amidst  the  little  band.  And  Lovell,  riding  by  Ratcliffe's  side, 
whispered:  "Beshrew  me,  I  would  rather  King  Edward  had 
asked  for  mine  own  head,  than  that  gallant  Earl's!" 

"  Tush,  youth,"  said  the  inexorable  Ratcliffe,  "  I  care  not 
of  what  steps  the  ladder  of  mine  ambition  may  be  made  !  " 

While  they  were  thus  speaking,  Warwick,  turning  to  Mon- 
tagu and  his  knights,  said  : 

"  Our  sole  hope  is  in  the  courage  of  our  men.  And,  as  at 
Teuton,  when  I  gave  the  throne  to  yon  false  man,  I  slew,  with 
my  own  hand,  my  noble  Malech,  to  show  that  on  that  spot  I 
would  win  or  die,  and  by  that  sacrifice  so  fired  the  soldiers, 
that  we  turned  the  day — so  now — oh,  gentlemen,  in  another 
hour  ye  would  jeer  me,  for  my  hand  fails  ;  this  hand  that  the 
poor  beast  hath  so  often  fed  from  !  Salad  in,  last  of  thy  race, 
serve  me  now  in  death  as  in  life.  Not  for  my  sake,  O  noblest 
steed  that  ever  bore  a  knight — not  for  mine  this  offering  !  " 

He  kissed  the  destrier  on  his  frontal,  and  Salad  in,  as  if  con- 
scious of  the  coming  blow,  bent  his  proud  crest  humbly,  and 
licked  his  lord's  steel-clad  hand.  So  associated  together  had 
been  horse  and  horseman,  that  had  it  been  a  human  sacrifice, 
the  bystanders  could  not  have  been  more  moved.  And  when, 
covering  the  charger's  eyes  with  one  hand,  the  Earl's  dagger 
descended,  bright  and  rapid — a  groan  went  through  the  ranks. 
But  the  effect  was  unspeakable  !  The  men  knew  at  once,  that 
to  them,  and  them  alone,  their  lord  entrusted  his  fortunes  and 
his  life — they  were  nerved  to  more  than  mortal  daring.  No 
escape  for  Warwick — why,  then,  in  Warwick's  person  they 
lived  and  died  !  Upon  foe  as  upon  friend,  the  sacrifice  pro- 
duced all  that  could  tend  to  strengthen  the  last  refuge  of 
despair.  Even  Edward,  where  he  rode  in  the  van,  beheld  and 
knew  the  meaning  of  the  deed.  Victorious  Touton  rushed  back 
upon  his  memory  with  a  thrill  of  strange  terror  and  remorse. 

"  He  will  die  as  he  has  lived,"  said  Gloucester,  with  admira- 
tion. "  If  I  live  for  such  a  field,  God  grant  me  such  a  death  !  " 

As  the  words  left  the  Duke's  lips,  and  Warwick,  one  foot  on 
his  dumb  friend's  corpse,  gave  the  mandate,  a  murderous  dis- 
charge from  the  archers  in  the  covert  rattled  against  the  line 


592  Tin.  I.AM    or  TIIK  HARONS. 

of  the  Yorkists,  and  the  foe,  still  advancing,  stepped  over  a 
hundred  corpses  to  the  conflict.  Despite  the  vast  preponder- 
ance of  numbers,  the  skill  of  Warwick's  archers,  the  strength 
of  his  position,  the  obstacle  to  the  cavalry  made  by  the  barri- 
cades, rendered  the  attack  perilous  in  the  extreme.  But  the 
orders  of  Edward  were  prompt  and  vigorous.  He  cared  not 
for  the  waste  of  life,  and  as  one  rank  fell,  another  rushed  on, 
High  before  the  barricades  stood  Montagu,  Warwick,  and  the 
rest  of  that  indomitable  chivalry,  the  flower  of  the  ancient 
Norman  heroism.  As  idly  beat  the  waves  upon  a  rock  as  the 
ranks  of  Edward  upon  that  serried  front  of  steel.  The  sun 
still  shone  in  heaven,  and  still  Edward's  conquest  was  unas- 
sured. Nay,  if  Marmaduke  could  yet  bring  back  the  troops 
of  Somerset  upon  the  rear  of  the  foe,  Montagu  and  the  Earl 
felt  that  the  victory  might  be  for  them.  And  often  the  Earl 
paused,  to  hearken  for  the  cry  of  "  Somerset "  on  the  gale,  and 
often  Montagu  raised  his  visor  to  look  for  the  banners  and  the 
spears  of  the  Lancastrian  Duke.  And  ever,  as  the  Earl  list- 
ened and  Montagu  scanned  the  field,  larger  and  larger  seemed 
to  spread  the  armament  of  Edward.  The  regiment  which 
boasted  the  stubborn  energy  of  Alwyn  was  now  in  movement, 
and,  encouraged  by  the  young  Saxon's  hardihood,  the  Lon- 
doners marched  on,  unawed  by  the  massacre  of  their  prede- 
cessors. But  Alwyn,  avoiding  the  quarter  defended  by  the 
knights,  defiled  a  little  towards  the  left,  where  his  quick  eye, 
inured  to  the  northern  fogs,  had  detected  the  weakness  of  the 
barricade  in  the  spot  where  Hilyard  was  stationed  ;  and  this 
pass  Alwyn  (discarding  the  bow)  resolved  to  attempt  at  the 
point  of  the  pike — the  weapon  answering  to  our  modern  bay- 
onet. The  first  rush  which  he  headed  was  so  impetuous  as  to 
effect  an  entry.  The  weight  of  the  numbers  behind  urged 
on  the  foremost,  and  Hilyard  had  not  sufficient  space  for  the 
sweep  of  the  two-handed  sword  which  had  done  good  work 
that -day.  While  here  the  conflict  became  fierce  and  doubtful, 
the  right  wing  led  by  D'Eyncourt  had  pierced  the  wood,  and, 
surprised  to  discover  no  ambush,  fell  upon  the  archers  in  the 
rear.  The  scene  was  now  inexpressibly  terrific  ;  cries  and 
groans,  and  the  ineffable  roar  and  yell  of  human  passion  re- 
sounded demon-like  through  the  shade  of  the  leafless  trees. 
And  at  this  moment,  the  provident  and  rapid  generalship  of 
Edward  had  moved  up  one  of  his  heavy  bombards.  Warwick 
and  Montagu,  arid  most  of  the  knights,  were  called  from  the 
barricades  to  aid  the  archers  thus  assailed  behind,  but  an 
instant  before  that  defence  was  shattered  into  air  by  the  explo- 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  BARONS.  593 

sion  of  the  bombard.  In  another  minute  horse  and  foot 
rushed  through  the  opening.  And  amidst  all  the  din  was 
heard  the  voice  of  Edward  ;  "  Strike  !  and  spare  not;  we  win 
the  day  !  "  "  We  win  the  day  ! — victory  ! — victory  !  "  repeated 
the  troops  behind;  rank  caught  the  sound  from  rank — and  file 
from  file — it  reached  the  captive  Henry,  and  he  paused  in  prayer; 
it  reached  the  ruthless  friar,  and  he  gave  the  sign  to  the  hire- 
ling at  his  shoulder  ;  it  reached  the  priest  as  he  entered, 
unmoved,  the  church  of  Hadley.  And  the  bell,  changing  its 
note  into  a  quicker  and  sweeter  chime,  invited  the  living  to 
prepare  for  death,  and  the  soul  to  rise  above  the  cruelty,  and 
the  falsehood,  and  the  pleasure  and  the  pomp,  and  the  wisdom 
and  the  glory  of  the  world  !  And  suddenly,  as  the  chime 
ceased,  there  was  heard,  from  the  eminence  hard  by,  a  shriek 
of  agony — a  female  shriek — drowned  by  the  roar  of  a  bombard 
in  the  field  below. 

On  pressed  the  Yorkists  through  the  pass  forced  by  Alwyn. 
"  Yield,  thee,  stout  fellow,"  said  the  bold  trader  to  Hilyard, 
whose  dogged  energy,  resembling  his  own,  moved  his  admira- 
tion, and  in  whom,  by  the  accent  in  which  Robin  called  his  men, 
he  recognized  a  north  countryman  :  "  Yield,  and  I  will  see  that 
thou  goest  safe  in  life  and  limb — look  round — ye  are  beaten." 

"  Fool !  "  answered  Hilyard,  setting  his  teeth,  "  the  People 
are  never  beaten  !  "  And  as  the  words  left  his  lips,  the  shot 
from  the  re-charged  bombard  shattered  him  piecemeal. 

"  On  for  London,  and  the  crown  !  "  cried  Alwyn — "  the  citi- 
zens are  the  people  !  " 

At  this  time,  through  the  general  crowd  of  the  Yorkists, 
Ratcliffe  and  Lovell,  at  the  head  of  their  appointed  knights, 
galloped  forward  to  accomplish  their  crowning  mission. 

Behind  the  column  which  still  commemorates  "  the  great 
battle  "  of  that  day,  stretches  now  a  trilateral  patch  of  pasture 
land,  which  faces  a  small  house.  At  that  time  this  space  was 
rough  forest  ground,  and  where  now,  in  the  hedge,  rise  two 
small  trees,  types  of  the  diminutive  offspring  of  our  niggard 
and  ignoble  civilization,  rose  then  two  huge  oaks,  coeval  with 
the  warriors  of  the  Norman  Conquest.  They  grew  close  to- 
gether, yet,  though  their  roots  interlaced — though  their 
branches  mingled,  one  had  not  taken  nourishment  from  the 
other.  They  stood,  equal  in  height  and  grandeur,  the  twin 
giants  of  the  wood.  Before  these  trees,  whose  ample  trunks 
protected  them  from  the  falchions  in  the  rear,  Warwick  and 
Montagu  took  their  last  post.  In  front  rose  literally 
mounds  of  the  slain,  whether  of  foe  or  friend  ;  for  round  the 


594  THE  LAST  OF  THE  KARONS. 

two  brothers  to  the  last  had  gathered  the  brunt  of  war,  and 
they  towered  now,  almost  solitary  in  valor's  sublime  despair, 
amidst  the  wrecks  of  battle,  and  against  the  irresistible  march 
of  fate.  As  side  by  side  they  had  gained  this  spot,  and  the 
vulgar  assailants  drew  back,  leaving  the  bodies  of  the  dead 
their  last  defence  from  death,  they  turned  their  visors  to  each 
other,  as  for  one  latest  farewell  on  earth. 

"  Forgive  me,  Richard  !  "  said  Montagu —  "  forgive  me  thy 
death  ;  had  I  not  so  blindly  believed  in  Clarence's  fatal  order, 
the  savage  Edward  had  never  passed  alive  through  the  pass  of 
Pontefract." 

"  Blame  not  thyself,"  replied  Warwick.  "  We  are  but  the  in- 
struments of  a  wiser  Will.  God  assoil  thee,  brother  mine.  We 
leave  this  world  to  tyranny  and  vice.  Christ  receive  our  souls !  " 

For  a  moment  their  hands  clasped,  and  then  all  was  grim 
silence. 

Wide  and  far,  behind  and  before,  in  the  gleam  of  the  sun, 
stretched  the  victorious  armament,  and  that  breathing  pause 
sufficed  to  show  the  grandeur  of  their  resistance — the  grandest 
of  all  spectacles,  even  in  its  hopeless  extremity — the  defiance 
of  brave  hearts  to  the  brute  force  of  the  Many.  Where  they 
stood  they  were  visible  to  thousands,  but  not  a  man  stirred 
against  them.  The  memory  of  Warwick's  past  achievements, 
the  consciousness  of  his  feats  that  day,  all  the  splendor  of  his 
fortunes  and  his  name,  made  the  mean  fear  to  strike,  and  the 
brave  ashamed  to  murder.  The  gallant  D'Eyncourt  sprung 
from  his  steed,  and  advanced  to  the  spot.  His  followers  did 
the  same. 

"  Yield,  my  lords — yield  !  Ye  have  done  all  that  men 
could  do." 

"  Yield,  Montagu,"  whispered  Warwick.  "  Edward  can 
harm  not  thee.  Life  has  sweets  ;  so  they  say,  at  least." 

"  Not  with  power  and  glory  gone.  We  yield  not,  Sir 
Knight,"  answered  the  Marquis,  in  a  calm  tone. 

"  Then  die  !  and  make  room  for  the  new  men  whom  ye  so 
have  scorned  !  "  exclaimed  a  fierce  voice  ;  and  Ratcliffe,  who 
had  neared  the  spot,  dismounted,  and  hallooed  on  his  blood- 
hounds. 

Seven  points  might  the  shadow  have  traversed  on  the  dial, 
and  before  Warwick's  axe,  and  Montagu's  sword,  seven  souls 
had  gone  to  judgment.  In  that  brief  crisis,  amidst  the  general 
torpor  and  stupefaction  and  awe  of  the  bystanders,  round  one 
little  spot  centred  still  a  war. 

But  numbers,  rushed  on  numbers,  as  the  fury  of  conflict 


THE  LAST  OP  THE  BARONS.  595 

urged  on  the  lukewarm  ;  Montagu  was  beaten  to  his  knee — 
Warwick  covered  him  with  his  body — a  hundred  axes  resounded 
on  the  Earl's  stooping  casque,  a  hundred  blades  gleamed 
round  the  joints  of  his  harness — a  simultaneous  cry  was  heard 
— over  the  mounds  of  the  slain,  through  the  press  into  the 
shadow  of  the  oaks,  dashed  Gloucester's  charger.  The  con- 
flict had  ceased — the  executioners  stood  mute  in  a  half-circle. 
Side  by  side,  axe  and  sword  still  griped  in  their  iron  hands,  lay 
Montagu  and  Warwick. 

The  young  Duke,  his  visor  raised,  contemplated  the  fallen 
foes  in  silence.  Then  dismounting,  he  unbraced  with  his  own 
hand  the  Earl's  helmet.  Revived  for  a  moment  by  the  air,  the 
hero's  eyes  unclosed,  his  lips  moved,  he  raised,  with  a  feeble 
effort,  the  gory  battle-axe,  and  the  armed  crowd  recoiled  in 
terror.  But  the  Earl's  soul,  dimly  conscious,  and  about  to 
part,  had  escaped  from  that  scene  of  strife — its  later  thoughts 
of  wrath  and  vengeance — to  more  gentle  memories,  to  such 
memories  as  fade  the  last  from  true  and  manly  hearts  ' 

"  Wife  !  child  ! "  murmured  the  Earl  indistinctly.  "  Anne — 
Anne  !  Dear  ones,  God  comfort  ye  !  "  And  with  these  words 
the  breath  went,  the  head  fell  heavily  on  its  mother  earth,  the 
face  set,  calm  and  undistorted  as  the  face  of  a  soldier  should 
be,  when  a  brave  death  has  been  worthy  of  a  brave  life. 

"  So,"  muttered  the  dark  and  musing  Gloucester,  uncon- 
scious of  the  throng  ;  "  so  perishes  the  Race  of  Iron  !  Low 
lies  the  last  Baron  who  could  control  the  throne  and  command 
the  people.  The  Age  of  Force  expires  with  knighthood  and 
deeds  of  arms.  And  over  this  dead  great  man  1  see  the  New 
Cycle  dawn.  Happy,  henceforth,  he  who  can  plot,  and  scheme, 
and  fawn,  and  smile  !  "  Waking  with  a  start,  from  his  rev- 
ery,  the  splendid  dissimulator  said,  as  in  sad  reproof:  "Ye 
have  been  overhasty,  knights  and  gentlemen.  The  House  of 
York  is  mighty  enough  to  have  spared  such  noble  foes.  Sound 
trumpets  !  Fall  in  file  !  Way,  there — way  !  King  Edward 
comes  !  Long  live  the  King  J  " 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   LAST    PILGRIMS   IN    THE   LONG    PROCESSION   TO  THE   COM- 
MON   BOURNE. 

THE  King  and  his  royal  brothers,  immediately  after  the  vic- 
tory, rode  back  to  London  to  announce  their  triumph.  The 
foot-soldiers  still  stayed  behind  to  recruit  themselves  after  the 


5yO  11IK    LAST    ()!•    Till.    KARONS. 

sore  fatigue  ;  and  towards  the  eminence  by  Hadley  Church, 
the  peasants  and  the  villagers  of  the  district  had  pressed  in 
awe  anil  in  wonder  ;  for  on  that  spot  had  Henry  (now  sadly 
led  back  to  a  prison,  never  again  to  unclose  to  his  living  form) 
stood  to  watch  the  destruction  of  the  host  gathered  in  his 
name — and  to  that  spot  the  corpses  of  Warwick  and  Montagu 
were  removed,  while  a  bier  was  prepared  to  convey  their 
remains  to  London  * — and  on  that  spot  had  the  renowned  friar 
conjured  the  mists,  exorcised  the  enchanted  guns,  and  de- 
feated the  horrible  machinations  of  the  Lancastrian  wizard. 

And  towards  the  spot,  and  through  the  crowd,  a  young 
Yorkist  captain  passed  with  a  prisoner  he  had  captured,  and 
whom  he  was  leading  to  the  tent  of  the  Lord  Hastings,  the 
only  one  of  the  commanders  from  whom  mercy  might  be  hoped, 
and  who  had  tarried  behind  the  King  and  his  royal  brothers 
to  make  preparations  for  the  removal  of  the  mighty  dead. 

"  Keep  close  to  me,  Sir  Marmaduke,"  said  the  Yorkist  ; 
"  we  must  look  to  Hastings  to  appease  the  King ;  and,  if  he 
hope  not  to  win  your  pardon,  he  may,  at  least,  after  such  a 
victory,  aid  one  foe  to  fly." 

"  Care  not  for  me,  Alwyn,"  said  the  knight ;  "  when  Somer- 
set was  deaf,  save  to  his  own  fears,  1  came  back  to  die  by  my 
chieftain's  side,  alas,  too  late — too  late  !  Better  now  death 
than  life  !  What  kin,  kith,  ambition,  love,  were  to  other  men, 
was  Lord  Warwick's  smile  to  me  ! " 

Alwyn  kindly  respected  his  prisoner's  honest  emotion,  and 
took  advantage  of  it  to  lead  him  away  from  the  spot  where 
he  Saw  knights  and  warriors  thickest  grouped,  in  soldier-like 
awe  and  sadness,  round  the  Hero-Brothers.  He  pushed 
through  a  humbler  crowd  of  peasants,  and  citizens,  and  women 
with  babes  at  their  breast ;  and  suddenly  saw  a  troop  of  tim- 
brel women  dancing  round  a  leafless  tree,  and  chanting  some 
wild,  but  mirthful  and  joyous,  doggerel. 

"What  obscene  and  ill-seasoned  revelry  is  this  !  "  said  the 
trader,  to  a  gaping  yeoman. 

"They  are  but  dancing,  poor  girls,  round  the  wicked  wiz- 
ard, whom  Friar  Bungey  caused  to  be  strangled,  and  his  witch 
daughter." 

*  The  bodies  of  Montagu  and  the  Earl  were  exhibited  bareheaded  at  St.  Paul's  church 
for  three  days,  "  that  no  pretences  of  their  being  alive  might  stir  up  any  rebellion  after- 
wards" ;     "  they  were  then  carried  down  to  the  Priory  of   Hisham,  in    Berkshire,  where, 
among  their  ancestors  by  the  mother's  side  (the  Earls  of  Salisbury),  the  two  unquiet  broth- 
ers rest  in  one  tomb."     "  The  large  river  of  their  blood,  divided  now  into  many  streams, 
runs  so  small  they  are  hardly  observed  as  they  flow  by."  * — Si-  transit  gloria  mundi! 

*  Habington's  "  Life  of  Edward  IV.,"  one  of  the  most  eloquent  compositions  in  th«  lan- 
guage, though  incorrect  as  a  history. 


THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS  597 

A  chill  foreboding  seized  upon  Alwyn  ;  he  darted  forward, 
scattering  peasant  and  tymbestere,  with  his  yet  bloody  sword. 
His  feet  stumbled  against  some  broken  fragments  ;  it  was  the 
poor  Eureka,  shattered,  at  last,  for  the  sake  of  the  diamond  ! 
Valueless  to  the  great  friar,  since  the  science  of  the  owner 
could  not  pass  to  his  executioner — valueless,  the  mechanism 
and  the  invention,  the  labor  and  the  genius,  but  the  supersti- 
tion, and  the  folly,  and  the  delusion,  had  their  value,  and  the 
impostor  who  destroyed  the  engine  clutched  the  jewel ! 

From  the  leafless  tree  was  suspended  the  dead  body  of  a 
man;  beneath,  lay  a  female,  dead  too ;  but  whether  by  the 
hand  of  man  or  the  mercy  of  Heaven  there  was  no  sign  to 
tell.  Scholar  and  Child,  Knowledge  and  Innocence,  alike 
were  cold  ;  the  grim  Age  had  devoured  them  as  it  devours 
ever  those  before,  as  behind,  its  march  ;  and  confounds,  in 
one  common  doom,  the  too  guileless  and  the  too  wise  ! 

"  Why  crowd  ye  thus,  knaves  ? "  said  a  commanding  voice. 

"  Ha,  Lord  Hastings  ! — approach  !  behold  !  "  exclaimed 
Alwyn. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  shouted  Graul,  as  she  led  her  sisters  from  the 
spot,  wheeling,  and  screaming,  and  tossing  up  their  timbrels  : 
"  Ha  !  the  witch  and  her  lover  !  Ha !  ha  !  Foul  is  fair  ! 
Ha  !  ha !  Witchcraft  and  death  go  together,  as  thou  mayst 
learn  at  the  last,  sleek  wooer." 

And,  peradventure,  when,  long  years  afterwards,  accusations 
of  witchcraft,  wantonness,  and  treason,  resounded  in  the  ears 
of  Hastings,  and,  at  the  signal  of  Gloucester,  rushed  in  the  armed 
doomsmen,  those  ominous  words  echoed  back  upon  his  soul  ! 

At  that  very  hour  the  gates  of  the  Tower  were  thrown  open 
to  the  multitude.  Fresh  from  his  victory,  Edward  and  his 
brothers  had  gone  to  render  thanksgivings  at  St.  Paul's  (they 
were  devout — those  three  Plantagenets  !),  thence  to  Baynard's 
Castle,  to  escort  the  Queen  and  her  children  once  more  to  the 
Tower.  And  now,  the  sound  of  trumpets  stilled  the  joyous 
uproar  of  the  multitude,  for,  in  the  balcony  of  the  casement 
that  looked  towards  the  chapel,  the  herald  had  just  announced 
that  King  Edward  would  show  himself  to  the  people.  On 
every  inch  of  the  courtyard,  climbing  up  wall  and  palisade, 
soldier,  citizen,  thief,  harlot — age,  childhood,  all  the  various 
conditions  and  epochs  of  multiform  life,  swayed,  clung,  mur- 
mured, moved,  jostled,  trampled — the  beings  of  the  little  hour  ! 

High  from  the  battlements  against  the  westering  beam 
floated  Edward's  conquering  flag — a  sun  shining  to  the  sun. 
Again,  and  a  third  time,  rang  the  trumpets,  and  on  the  balcony, 


598  THE    LAST    OF    THE    BARONS. 

his  crown  upon  his  head,  but  his  form  still  sheathed  in  armor, 
stood  the  King.  What  mattered  to  the  crowd  his  falseness 
and  his  perfidy — his  licentiousness  and  cruelty?  All  vices 
ever  vanish  in  success  !  Hurrah  for  King  Edward  !  THE 
MAN  OF  THE  AGE  suited  the  age,  had  valor  for  its  war  and 
cunning  for  its  peace,  and  the  sympathy  of  the  age  was  with 
him  !  So  there  stood  the  King  ;  at  his  right  hand  Elizabeth, 
with  her  infant  boy  (the  heir  of  England)  in  her  arms — the 
proud  face  of  the  Duchess  seen  over  the  Queen's  shoulder. 
By  Elizabeth's  side  was  the  Duke  of  Gloucester,  leaning  on 
his  sword,  and  at  the  left  of  Edward,  the  perjured  Clarence 
bowed  his  fair  head  to  the  joyous  throng !  At  the  sight  of 
the  victorious  King,  of  the  lovely  Queen,  and,  above  all,  of 
the  young  male  heir,  who  promised  length  of  days  to  the  line 
of  York,  the  crowd  burst  forth  with  a  hearty  cry  :  "  Long 
live  the  King  and  the  King's  son  !  "  Mechanically  Elizabeth 
turned  her  moistened  eyes  from  Edward  to  Edward's  brother, 
and  suddenly,  as  with  a  mother's  prophetic  instinct,  clasped 
her  infant  closer  to  her  bosom,  when  she  caught  the  glittering 
and  fatal  eye  of  Richard  Duke  of  Gloucester  (York's  young 
hero  of  the  day,  Warwick's  grim  avenger  in  the  future)  fixed 
upon  that  harmless  life — destined  to  interpose  a  feeble  obsta- 
cle between  the  ambition  of  a  ruthless  intellect  and  the  heri- 
"age  of  the  English  throne ! 


THE   END. 


NOTES. 


I.- 

THE  Badge  of  the  Bear  and  ragged  Staff  was  so  celebrated  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  that  the  following  extract  from  a  letter  addressed  by  Mr.  Courthope, 
Rouge  Croix,  to  the  author,  will  no  doubt  interest  the  reader,  and  the  author 
is  happy  in  the  opportunity  afforded  of  expressing  his  acknowledgments  for 
the  courteous  attention  with  which  Mr.  Courthope  has  honored  his  inquiries: 

"  COLLEGE  OF  ARMS. 

"As  regards  the  badge  of  Richard  Nevile,  Earl  of  Warwick,  viz.,  the 
Bear  and  Staff,  I  agree  with  you,  certainly,  as  to  the  probability  of  his  hav- 
ing sometimes  used  the  whole  badge,  and  sometimes  the  staff  only,  which 
accords  precisely  with  the  way  in  which  the  Bear  and  Staff  are  set  forth  in 
the  Rous  Roll  to  the  early  Earls  (Warwick),  before  the  Conquest.  We 
there,  find  them  figured  with  the  staff  upon  theii  shields,  and  the  bear  at  their 
feet,  and  the  staff  alone  is  introduced  as  a  quartering  upon  their  shields. 

"  The  story  of  the  origin  of  these  badges  is  as  follows  : 

"  Aith,  or  Arthgal,  is  reputed  to  have  been  the  first  Earl  of  Warwick, 
and  being  one  of  the  Knights  of  King  Arthur's  Round  Table,  it  behoved 
him  to  have  a  cognizance  ;  and  Arth  or  Narth  signifying  in  British  the 
same  as  Ursus  in  Latin,  he  took  the  bear  for  such  cognizance  :  his  successor, 
Morvidus,  Earl  of  Warwick,  in  single  combat,  overcame  a  mighty  giant 
(who  had  encountered  him  with  a  tree  pulled  up  from  the  root,  the  boughs 
of  which  had  been  torn  from  it),  and  in  token  of  his  success,  assumed  the 
ragged  staff.  You  will  thus  see  that  the  origins  of  the  two  were  different, 
which  would  render  the  bearing  of  them  separately  not  unlikely,  and  you 
will  likewise  infer  that  both  came  through  the  Beauchamps.  I  do  not  find 
the  ragged  staff  ever  attributed  to  the  Neviles  before  the  match  with  Beau- 
champ. 

"  As  regards  the  crest  or  cognizance  of  Nevile,  the  Pied  Bull  has  been 
the  cognizance  of  that  family  from  a  very  early  time,  and  the  Bull's  head  its 
crest,  and  both  the  one  and  the  other  may  have  been  used  by  the  King- 
maker, and  by  his  brother,  the  Marquis  Montagu  :  the  said  bull  appears  at 
the  feet  of  Richard  Nevile  in  the  Rous  Roll,  accompanied  by  the  Eagle  of 
Monthermer  ;  the  crests  on  either  side  of  him  are  those  of  Montagu  and 
Nevile  :  besides  these  two  crests,  both  of  which  the  Marquis  Montagu  may 
have  used,  he  certainly  did  use  the  Gryphon,  issuant  out  of  a  ducal  coronet, 
as  this  appears  nlone  for  his  crest,  on  his  garter  plate,  as  a  crest  for  Mon- 
tagu, he  having  given  the  arms  of  that  family  precedence  over  his  paternal 
coat  of  Nevile  ;  the  King-maker,  likewise,  upon  his  seal,  gives  the  prece- 
dence to  Montagu  and  Monthermer,  and  they  alone  appear  upon  the  shield. 

599 


600  NOTES 


II. 

Hume.  Rapin,  and  Carte,  all  dismiss  the  story  of  Edward's  actual  im- 
prisonment at  Middleham,  while  Lingard,  Sharon  Turner,  and  others  adopt 
it  implicitly.  And  yet.  though  Lingard  has  successfully  grappled  with 
some  of  Hume's  objections,  he  has  left  others  wholly  unanswered.  Hume 
states  that  no  such  fact  is  mentioned  in  Edward's  subsequent  proclama- 
tion against  Clarence  and  Warwick.  Lingard  answers,  after  correcting  an 
immaterial  error  in  Hume's  dates:  "that  the  proclamation  ought  not  to 
have  mentioned  it,  because  it  was  confined  to  the  enumeration  of  offences 
only  committed  after  the  general  amnesty  in  1469."  And  then,  surely 
with  some  inconsistency,  quotes  the  attainder  of  Clarence  many  years  after- 
wards, in  which  the  King  enumerates  it  among  his  offences,  "  as  jeopardyng 
the  King's  royal  estate,  person,  and  life,  in  strait  warde,  putting  him  there- 
by from  all  his  libertye  after  procuring  great  commotions.'  But  it  is  clear  that 
if  the  amnesty  hindered  Edward  from  charging  Warwick  with  this  imprison- 
ment only  one  year  after  it  was  granted,  it  would,  &  fortiori,  hinder  him 
from  charging  Clarence  with  it  nine  years  after.  Most  probable  it  is  that 
this  article  of  accusation  does  not  refer  to  any  imprisonment,  real  or  sup- 
posed, at  Middleham.  in  1469,  but  to  Clarence's  invasion  of  England  in  1470 
when  Edward's  s'ale,  personne,  and  life  were  indeed  jeopardized  by  his  nar- 
row escape  from  the  fortified  house,  where  he  might  fairly  be  called,  "  in 
strait  warde  "  ;  especially  as  the  words,  "  after  procuring  great  commotions," 
could  not  apply  to  the  date  of  the  supposed  detention  in  Middleham,  when, 
instead  of  procuring  commotions,  Clarence  had  helped  Warwick  to  allay 
them,  but  do  propei  ly  apply  to  his  subsequent  rebellion  in  1470.  Finally, 
Edward's  charges  against  his  brother,  as  Lingard  himself  has  observed 
elsewhere,  are  not  proofs,  and  that  King  never  scrupled  at  any  falsehood  to 
serve  his  turn.  Nothing,  in  short,  can  be  more  improbable  than  this  tale  of 
Edward's  captivity — there  was  no  <  bject  in  it.  At  the  very  time  it  is  said 
to  have  taken  place,  Warwick  is  absolutely  engaged  in  warfare  against  the 
King's  foes.  The  moment  Edward  leaves  Middleham,  instead  of  escaping 
to  London,  he  goes  carelessly  and  openly  to  York,  to  judge  and  execute 
the  very  captain  of  the  rebels  whom  Warwick  has  subdued,  and  in  the 
very  midst  of  Warwick's  armies  !  Far  from  appearing  to  harbor  the  natural 
resentment  so  vindictive  a  King  must  have  felt  (had  so  great  an  indignity 
been  offered  to  him),  almost  immediately  after  he  leaves  York,  he  takes  the 
Nevile  family  into  grea'er  power  than  ever,  confers  new  dignities  upon 
Warwick,  and  betroths  his  eldest  daughter  to  Warwick's  nephew.  On  the 
whole,  then,  perhaps  some  such  view  of  the  King's  visit  to  Middleham, 
which  has  been  taken  in  this  narra'ive,  may  be  considered  not  the  least  prob- 
able compromise  of  the  disputed  and  contradictory  evidence  on  the  subject. 


PAUSANIAS,  THE  SPARTAN 


DEDICATION 

TO 

THE  REV.  BENJAMIN  HALL  KENNEDY,  D.  D. 

CANON   OF    ELY, 
AND    REGIUS    PROFESSOR    OF    GREEK    IN    THE    UNIVERSITY    OF   CAMBRIDGE. 


MY  DEAR  DR.  KENNEDY  : 

Revised  by  your  helpful  hand,  and  corrected  by  your  accurate  scholarship, 
to  whom  may  these  pages  be  so  fitly  inscribed  as  to  that  one  of  their  author's 
earliest  and  most  honored  friends,*  whose  generous  assistance  has  enabled 
me  to  place  them  before  the  public  in  their  present  form  ? 

It  is  fully  fifteen,  if  not  twenty,  years  since  my  father  commenced  the 
composition  of  an  historical  romance  on  the  subject  of  Pausanias,  the  Spar- 
tan Regent.  Circumstances,  which  need  not  here  be  recorded,  compelled 
him  to  lay  aside  the  work  thus  begun.  But  the  subject  continued  to  haunt 
his  imagination  and  occupy  his  thoughts.  He  detected  in  it  singular  oppor- 
tunities for  effective  exercise  of  the  gifts  most  peculiar  to  his  genius  ;  and 
repeatedly,  in  the  intervals  of  other  literal y  labor,  he  returned  to  the  task 
which,  though  again  and  again  interrupted,  was  never  abandoned.  To  that 
rare  combination  of  the  imaginative  and  practical  faculties  which  charac- 
terized my  father's  intellect,  and  received  from  his  life  such  varied  illus- 
tration, the  story  of  Pausanias,  indeed,  briefly  as  it  is  told  by  Thucydides 
and  Plutarch,  addressed  itself  with  singular  force.  The  vast  conspiracy  of 
the  Spartan  Regent,  had  it  been  successful,  would  have  changed  the  whole 
course  of  Grecian  history.  To  any  student  of  political  phenomena,  but 
more  especially  to  one  who,  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life,  had  been  per- 
sonally engaged  in  active  politics,  the  story  of  such  a  conspiracy  could  not 
fail  to  be  attractive.  To  the  student  of  human  nature  the  character  of 
Pausanias  himself  offers  sources  of  the  deepest  interest ;  and,  in  the  strange 
career  and  tragic  fate  of  the  great  conspirator,  an  imagination  fascinated  by 
the  supernatural  must  have  recognized  remarkable  elements  of  awe  and  ter- 
ror. A  few  months  previous  to  his  death,  I  asked  my  father  whether  he  had 
abandoned  all  intention  of  finishing  his  romance  of  "  Pausanias."  He 
replied  :  "  On  the  contrary,  I  am  finishing  it  now,"  and  entered,  with  great 
animation,  into  a  discussion  of  the  subject  and  its  capabilities.  This  reply 
to  my  inquiry  surprised  and  impressed  me,  for,  as  you  are  aware,  my  father 

*  The  late  Lord  Lytton,  in  his  unpublished  autobiographical  memoirs,  describing  his 
contemporaries  at  Cambridge,  speaks  of  Dr.  Kennedy  as  "  a  young  giant  of  learning.'  — L. 


is  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

was  then  engaged  in  the  simultaneous  composition  of  two  other  and  very 
different  works,  "  Kenelm  Chillingly  "  ami  t lie  "  Parisians. "  It  was  the 
last  time  he  ever  spoke  to  me  a*>out  Pausanias  ;  but  from  what  he  then  said 
of  it  I  derived  an  impression  that  the  book  was  all  but  completed,  and 
needing  only  a  few  finishing  touches  to  be  ready  for  publication  at  no  dis- 
tant date. 

This  impression  was  confirmed,  subsequent  to  my  father's  death,  by  a 
letter  of  instructions  about  his  posthumous  papers  which  accompanied  his 
will.  In  that  letter,  dated  1856,  .special  allusion  is  made  to  Pausanias  as  a 
work  already  far  advanced  towards  its  conclusion. 

You,  to  whom,  in  your  kind  and  careful  revision  of  it,  this  unfinished  work 
has  suggested  many  questions  which,  alas,  I  cannot  answer,  as  to  the  proba- 
ble conduct  and  fate  of  its  fictitious  characters,  will  readily  understand  my 
reluctance  to  surrender  an  impression  seemingly  so  well  justified.  I  did  not 
indeed  cease  to  cherish  it,  until  reiterated  and  exhaustive  .search  had  failed  to 
recover  from  the  "wallet  "  wherein  Time  "  put  alms  for  oblivion,"  more  than 
those  few  imperfect  fragments  which,  by  your  valued  help,  are  here  arranged 
in  such  order  a»  to  carry  on  the  narrative  of  Pausanias,  with  no  solution  of 
continuity,  to  the  middle  of  the  second  volume. 

There  the  manuscript  breaks  off.  Was  it  ever  continued  further  ?  I 
know  not.  Many  circumstances  induce  me  to  believe  that  the  conception 
had  long  been  carefully  completed  in  the  mind  of  its  author  ;  but  he  has  left 
behind  him  only  a  very  meagre  and  imperfect  indication  of  the  course  which, 
beyond  the  point  where  it  is  broken,  his  narrative  was  intended  to  follow. 
In  presence  of  this  fact  I  have  had  to  choose  between  the  total  suppression 
of  the  fragment,  and  the  publication  of  it  in  its  present  form.  My  choice 
has  not  been  made  without  hesitation  ;  but  I  trust  that,  from  many  points  of 
view,  the  following  pages  will  be  found  to  justify  it. 

Judiciously  (as  I  cannot  but  think)  for  the  purposes  of  his  fiction,  my 
father  has  taken  up  the  story  of  Pausanias  at  a  period  subsequent  to  the 
battle  of  Plaiaea  ;  when  the  Spartan  Regent,  as  Admiral  of  the  United 
Greek  .Fleet  in  the  waters  of  Byzairtium,  was  at  the  .summit  of  his  power 
and  reputation.  Mr.  Grote,  in  his  great  work,  expresses  the  opinion  (which 
certainly  cannot  be  disputed  by  unbiassed  readers  of  Thucydides;  that  the 
victory  of  PLtrea  was  not  attributable  to  any  remarkable  abilities  on  the  part 
of  Pausanias.  But  Mr.  Grote  fairly  recognizes  as  quite  exceptional  the  fame 
and  authority  accorded  to  Pausanias,  after  the  battle,  by  all  the  Hellenic 
States ;  the  influence  which  his  name  commanded,  and  the  awe  which  his 
character  inspired.  Not  to  the  mere  fact  of  his  birth  as  an  Heracleid,  not 
to  the  lucky  accident  (if  such  it  were)  of  his  success  at  Platoea,  and  certainly 
not  to  his  undisputed  (but  surely  by  no  means  uncommon)  physical  courage, 
is  it  possible  to  attribute  the  peculiar  position  which  this  remarkable  man  so 
long  occupied  in  the  estimation  of  his  contemporaries.  For  the  little  that 
we  know  about  Pausanias  we  are  mainly  dependent  upon  Athenian  writ- 
ers, who  must  have  been  strongly  prejudiced  against  him.  Mr.  Grote, 
adopting  (as  any  modern  historian  needs  must  do)  the  narrative  so  handed 
down  to  him,  never  once  pauses  to  question  its  estimate  of  the  chaiacter  of 
a  man  who  was  at  one  time  the  glory,  and  at  another  the  terror,  of  all 
Greece.  Yet,  in  comparing  the  summary  proceedings  taken  against  Leo'y- 
chides  with  the  extreme,  and  seemingly  pusillanimous,  deference  paid  to 
Pausanias  by  the  Ephors  long  after  they  possessed  the  most  alarming  proofs 
of  his  treason,  Mr.  Grote  observes,  without  attempting  to  account  for  the 
fact,  that  Pausanias,  though  only  Regent,  was  far  more  powerful  than  any 
Spartan  King.  Why  so  powerful  ?  Obviously,  because  he  possessed  un- 


DEDICATION.  V 

common  force  of  character ;  a  force  of  character  strikingly  attested  by  every 
known  incident  of  his  career  ;  and  whuh,  when  concentrated  upon  the  con- 
ception and  execution  of  vast  design-,  (even  if  those  designs  be  criminal), 
must  be  recogn-zect  as  the  sj.ec  ai  a  tri:>u  e  of  getdus.  Thucj dales,  Plutarch, 
D;odorus,  Gioie,  all  these  writers  a-cribe  M>le!y  to  the  administrative  inca- 
pacity ot  Pausanias  that  offensive  arrogance  which  characterized  his  com- 
mand  at  Byzan  ium,  and  apparently  cost  Sparta  the  loss  of  her  maritime 
hegemony.  But  here  is  precisely  one  of  those  problems  in  public  policv  and 
p  rsonal  conduct  w.iich  tlie  historian  bequeaths  to  the  imaginative  writer, 
and  whi'  h  n<:eds  for  its  solution;  a  profound  knowledge  rather  of  human 
nature  ihan  of  books.  For  dealing  with  such  a  problem,  my  father,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  intuitive  penetration  of  character  and  mo'ive  which  is  common  to 
every  great  romance  writer,  certainly  possessed  two  qualifications  special  to 
himself  :  the  habit  of  dealing  practically  with  political  questions,  and  expe- 
rience in  the  active  management  of  rm-n.  His  explanation  of  the  policy  of 
Pausanias  at  Bszanlium,  if  it  be  not  (as  I  think  it  is)  the  right  one,  is  at 
least  the  only  one  yet  offered.  I  venture  to  think  that,  historically,  it  merits 
attention;  as,  fiom  the  imaginative  point  of  view,  it  is  undoubtedly  felici- 
tous. By  elevating  our  estimate  of  Pausanias  as  a  statesman,  it  increases 
our  interest  in  him  as  a  man. 

The  Author  of  "  Pau^anias  "  does  not  merely  tell  us  that  his  hero,  when 
in  conference  with  the  Spartan  commissioners,  displayed  "great  natural 
powers  which,  rightly  trained,  might  have  made  him  not  less  renowned  in 
council  than  in  war";  but  he  gives  us,  though  briefly,  the  arguments  used 
by  Pausanias.  He  presents  to  us  the  image,  always  interesting,  of  a  man 
who  grasps  finulv  the  clear  conception  of  a  definite  but  difficult  policy,  for 
succes-;  in  which  he  is  dependent  on  the  conscious  or  involuntary  co-operation 
of  men  impenotiahle  to  that  conception,  and  possessed  of  a  collective  au- 
thority even  greater  than  his  own.  To  retain  Sparta  temporarily  at  the  head 
of  Greece  was  an  ambition  quite  consistent  with  the  more  criminal  designs 
of  Pau-anias  ;  and  his  whole  conduct  at  Byzantium  is  rendered  more  intelli- 
gible than  it  appears  in  history,  when  he  points  out  that  "for  Sparta  to 
maintain  rur  a-cendency  two  things  are  needful:  first,  to  continue  the  war 
by  land  ;  secondly,  to  di-gust  the  lonians  with  their  sojourn  at  Byzantium, 
to  send  them  wnh  their  ships  back  to  their  own  havens,  and  so  leave  Hellas 
under  the  sole  guardianship  of  the  Spartans  and  their  Peloponne^ian  allies." 
And  who  has  not  learned,  in  a  later  school,  the  wisdom  of  the  Spaitan  com- 
missioners ?  Do  not  their  utterances  sound  familiar  to  us  ?  "  Increase  of 
dominion  is  waste  of  life  and  treasure.  Sparta  is  content  to  hold  her  own. 
What  care  we,  who  leads  the  Greeks  into  blows  ?  The  fewer  blows  the 
better.  Biave  men  fight  if  they  must :  wise  men  never  fight  if  they  can  help 
it."  Of  this  scene  and  some  o  hers  in  the  first  volume  of  the  present  frag- 
ment (notably  ihe  scene  in  which  the  R-  gent  confronts  the  allied  chiefs,  and 
defends  himself  aga  nst  the  charge  of  connivance  at  the  escape  of  ihe  Persian 
prisoners),  I  should  have  been  tempted  to  say  that  they  could  not  have 
been  written  without  i>ttsonal  experience  of  political  life  ;  if  the  interview 
between  Wallenstejn  and  t!;e  Swedish  ambassadors  in  Schiller's  great  trilogy 
did  not  recur  to  my  recollection  as  I  write.  The  language  of  the  ambas-a- 
dors  in  that  interview  is  a  p.  rfcct  manual  of  practical  diplomacy  ;  and  yet 
in  practical  diplomacy  Schiller  had  no  personal  experience.  There  are, 
indeed,  no  limits  to  the  creative  power  of  genius.  But  it  is,  perhaps,  the 
practical  politician  who  will  be  most  interested  by  the  chapters  in  which  Pau- 
sanias explains  his  policy,  or  defends  his  position. 

In  publishing  a  romance  which  its  author  has  left  unfinished,  I  may  per- 


VI  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

haps  be  allowed  to  indicate  briefly  what  I  believe  to  have  been  the  general 
scope  of  its  design,  and  the  probable  progress  of  its  narrative. 

The  "  domestic  imerest "  of  that  narrative  is  supplied  by  the  story  of 
Cleonice  :  a  story  which,  briefly  told  l>y  Plutarch,  suggest  one  of  the  most 
tragic  situations  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  The  pathos  and  terror  of  this 
daik,  weird  episode  in  a  life  which  history  herself  invests  with  all  the  char- 
acter of  romance,  long  haunted  the  itnaginaiion  of  Byron  ;  and  elicited  from 
Goethe  one  of  the  most  whimsical  illustraiions  of  the  astonishing  ab-ur<iity 
into  which  criticism  sometimes  tumbles,  when  it  "  o'erleaps  itself  and  falls 
o'  the  other." 

Writing  of  Manfred  and  its  author,  he  says  :  "  There  are,  properly  speak- 
ing, two  females  whose  phantoms  forever  haunt  him  ;  and  which,  in  this 
piece  also,  perform  principal  parts.  One  under  the  name  of  Astarte,  the 
other  without  form  or  actual  presence,  and  merely  a  voice.  Of  the  horrid 
occurrence  which  took  place  with  the  former,  the  following  is  related  : 
When  a  bold  and  enterprising  young  man,  he  won  the  affections  of  a  Floren- 
tine lady.  Her  husband  discovered  the  amour,  and  murdered  his  wife. 
But  the  murderer  was  the  same  night  found  dead  in  the  street,  and  there  was 
no  r-ne  to  whom  any  suspicion  could  be  attached.  Lord  Byron  removed 
from  Florence,  and  these  spirits  haunted  him  all  his  life  after.  This  roman- 
tic incident  is  rendered  highly  probable  ty  innumerable  allusions  to  it  in  his 
poems.  As,  for  instance,  when  turning  his  sad  contemplations  inwards,  he 
applies  tohims'lf  the  fatal  history  of  the  King  of  Sparta.  It  is  as  follows  ; 
Pausanias,  a  Lacedaemonian  General,  acquires  glory  by  the  important  victory 
at  Plataea  ;  but  afterwards  forfeits  the  confidence  of  his  countrymen  by  his 
arrogance,  obstinacy,  and  secret  intrigues  with  the  common  enemy.  This 
man  draws  upon  himself  the  heavy  guilt  of  innocent  blood,  which  attends 
him  to  his  end.  For,  while  commanding  the  fleet  of  the  allied  Greeks  in 
the  Black  Sea,  he  is  inflamed  with  a  violent  passion  for  a  Byzantine  maiden. 
After  long  resistance,  he  at  length  obtains  her  from  her  paients  ;  and  she 
is  to  be  delivered  up  to  him  at  night.  She  modestly  desires  the  servant  to 
put  out  the  lamp,  and,  while  groping  her  way  in  tie  dark,  she  overturns  it. 
Pausanias  is  awakened  from  his  sleep  ;  apprehensive  of  an  attack  from  mur- 
derers he  seizes  his  sword,  and  destroys  his  mistress.  The  horrid  sight 
never  leaves  him.  Her  shade  pursues  him  unceasingly  ;  and  in  vain  he 
implores  aid  of  the  gods  and  the  exorcising  priests.  That  poet  must  have  a 
lacerated  hcait  who  selects  such  a  scene  from  antiquity,  appropriates  it  to 
himself,  and  burdens  his  tragic  image  with  it."  * 

.  It  is  extremely  characteristic  of  Byron,  that,  instead  of  resenting  this  charge 
of  murder,  he  was  so  pleased  by  the  criticism  in  which  it  occurs  that  he 
afterwards  dedicated  "  The  Deformed  Transformed  "  to  Goethe.  Mr.  Grote 
repeats  the  story  above  alluded  to,  with  all  the  sanction  of  his  grave  authority, 
and  even  mentions  the  name  of  the  young  lady;  apparently  for  the  sake  of 
adding  a  few  black  strokes  to  his  character  of  Pausarrias.  But  the  supernatural 
part  of  the  legend  was,  of  course,  beneath  the  notice  of  a  nineteenth-century 
critic  ;  and  he  pisses  it  by.  This  part  of  the  story  is,  however,  essential  to 
the  psychological  interest  of  it.  For  whether  it  be  that  Pausani-as  supposed 
himself,  or  that  contemporary  gossips  supposed  him,  to  be  haunted  by  the 
phantom  of  the  woman  he  had  loved  and  slain,  the  fact,  in  either  case,  affords 
a  lurid  glimpse  into  the  inner  life  of  the  man  ;  just  as,  although  Goethe's 
murder-story  about  Byron  is  ludicrously  untrue,  yet  the  fact  that  such  a  story 
was  circulated,  and  could  be  seriously  repeated  by  such  a  man  as  Goethe 
without  being  resented  by  Byron  himself,  offers  significant  illustration  both 

ters  of  Lord  Byron,"  p.  733, 


DEDICATION.  Vll 

of  what  Byron  was,  and  of  what  he  appeared  to  his  contemporaries.  Grote 
also  assigns  the  death  of  Cleonice  to  that  period  in  the  life  of  Pausanias 
when  he  was  in  the  command  of  the  allies  at  Byzantium  ;  and  refers  to  it  as 
one  of  the  numerous  outrages  whereby  Pausanias  abused  and  disgraced  the 
authority  confided  to  him,  Plutarch,  however,  who  tells  the  story  in  greater 
detail,  distinctly  fixes  the  date  of  its  catastrophe  subsequent  to  the  return  of 
the  Regent  to  Byzantium,  as  a  solitary  volunteer,  in  the  trireme  of  Hermione. 
The  following  is  his  account  of  the  affair  : 

"  It  is  related  that  Pausanias,  when  at  Byzantium,  sought  with  criminal 
purpose  the  love  of  a  young  lacy  of  good  family,  named  Cleonice.  The 
parents  yielding  to  fear,  or  necessity,  suffered  him  to  carry  away  their  daugh- 
ter. Before  enterii  g  his  chamber,  she  reque-ted  that  the  light  might  be 
extinguished  ;  and  in  darkness  and  silence  she  approached  the  couch  of 
Pausanias,  who  was  already  asleep.  In  so  doing  she  accidentally  upset  the 
lamp.  Pausanias,  suddenly  aroused  from  slumber,  and  supposing  that  some 
enemy  was  about  to  assassinate  him,  seized  his  sword,  which  lay  by  his  bed- 
side, ai  d  wiih  it  struck  the  maiden  to  the  ground.  She  died  of  her  wound  ; 
and  from  that  moment  repose  was  banished  from  the  life  of  Pausanias.  A 
spectre  appeared  to  him  every  night  in  his  sleep  ;  and  repealed  to  him  in 
reproachful  tones  this  hexameter  verse  : 

*'  Whither  I  wait  thee  march,  and  receive  the  doom  thou  deservest, 
Sooner  or  later,  but  ever,  to  man  crime  bringeth  disaster." 

The  allies,  scandalized  by  this  misdeed,  concerted  with  Cimon,  and  besieged 
Pausanias  in  Byzantium.  But  he  succeeded  in  escaping.  Continually 
troubled  by  the  phantom,  he  took  .refuge,  it  is  said,  at  Heraclea,  in  that 
temple  where  the  souls  of  the  dead  are  evoked.  He  appealed  to  Cleonice 
and  conjured  her  to  mitigate  his  torment.  She  appeared  to  him,  and  told 
him  that  on  his  return  to  Sparta  he  would  attain  the  end  of  his  sufferings  ; 
indicating,  as  it  would  seem,  by  these  enigmatic  words,  the  death  which 
there  awaited  him.  "This,"  adds  Plutarch,  "is  a  story  told  by  most  of  the 
historians."  * 

I  feel  no  doubt  that  this  version  of  the  story,  or  at  least  the  general  outline 
of  it,  would  have  been  followed  by  the  romance  had  my  father  lived  to 
complete  it.  Some  modification  of  its  details  would  doubtless  have  been 
necessary  for  the  purposes  of  fiction.  But  that  the  Cleonice  of  the  novel  is 
destined  to  die  by  the  hand  of  her  lover,  is  clearly  indicated.  To  me  it  seems 
that  con-iderable  skill  and  judgment  are  shown  in  the  pains  taken,  at  the 
very  opening  of  the  book,  to  prepare  the  mind  of  the  reader  for  an  incident 
which  would  have  been  intolerably  painful,  and  must  have  prematurely  ended 
the  whole  narrative  interest,  had  the  character  of  Cleonice  been  drawn  other- 
wise than  as  we  find  it  in  this  first  portion  of  the  book.  From  the  outset  she 
appears  before  us  under  the  shadow  of  a  tragic  fatality.  Of  that  fatality 
she  is  herself  intuitively  conscious  :  and  with  it  her  whole  being  is  in 
harmony.  No  sooner  do  we  recognize  her  real  character  than  we  perceive 
that,  for  such  a  character,  there  can  be  no  fit  or  satisfactory  issue  from  the 
difficulties  of  her  position,  in  any  conceivable  combination  of  earthly  circum- 
stances. But  she  is  not  of  the  earth  earthly.  Her  thoughts  already  Habi- 
tually hover  on  the  dim  frontier  of  some  vague  spiritual  region  in  which  her 
love  seeks  refuge  from  the  hopeless  realities  of  her  life  ;  and,  recognizing 
this  betimes,  we  are  prepared  so  see  above  the  hand  of  her  ill-fated  lover, 
when  it  strikes  her  down  in  the  dark,  the  merciful  and  releasing  hand  c'  '"-r 
natural  destiny. 

*  Plutarch, "  Life  of  Qimpn," 


Viii  PAUSAN1AS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

But.  as-uming  the  author  to  have  adopted  Plutarch's  chronology,  and 
deferred  the  death  of  Cleonice  till  the  return  of  Pausanias  to  Byzantium  (ihe 
latest  date  to  winch  he  could  possibly  have  deferred  it),  this  catastrophe 
must  still  have  occurred  somewhere  in  the  cour>e,  or  at  the  clo.^e,  ot  his 
second  volume.  There  would,  in  that  case,  have  still  remained  about  nine 
years  (and  those  the  most  eventful)  of  his  hero's  career  to  be  narrated.  The 
premature  removal  of  the  heroine  from  the  narrative  so  early  in  the  course 
of  it  would  therefore,  at  first  sight,  appear  to  be  a  serious  defect  in  the 
concep  J.in  of  this  romance.  Heie  it  is,  however,  that  the  credulous  gossip 
of  the  old  biographer  comes  to  the  rescue  of  the  modern  artist.  I  apprehend 
that  the  Cleonice  of  the  novel  would,  after  her  death,  have  been  still  sensibly 
present  to  the  reader's  imagination  throughout  the  rest  of  the  romance.  She 
would  then  have  moved  through  it  like  a  fate,  reappearing  in  the  most  solemn 
moments  of  the  siory,  and  at  all  times  apparent,  even  when  unseen,  in  her 
visible  influence  upon  the  fierce  and  passionate  character,  the  sombre  and 
turbulent  career,  of  her  guilty  lover.  In  short,  we  may  fairly  suppose  that, 
in  all  the  closing  scenes  of  the  tragedy,  Cleonice  would  have  still  figured  and 
acted  as  one  of  those  supernatural  agencies  which  my  father,  following  the 
example  of  his  great  predecessor,  Scoit,  did  not  scruple  to  iniroduce  into 
the  composition  of  historical  romance.* 

Without  the  explanation  here  suggested,  those  metaphysical  conversations 
between  Cleonice,  Alcman,  and  Pausanias,  which  occupy  the  opening  chap- 
ters of  Book  II.,  might  be  deemed  superfluous.  But,  in  fact,  they  are 
essential  to  the  preparation  of  the  catastrophe  ;  and  that  catastrophe,  if 
reached,  would  undoubtedly  have  revealed  to  any  reflective  reader  their 
important  connection  with  the  narrative  which  they  now  appear  to  retard 
somewhat  unduly. 

Qui'e  apart  from  the  unfinished  Manuscript  of  this  story  of  Pausanias,  and 
in  another  portion  of  my  father's  papers  which  have  no  reference  to  this 
story,  I  have  discovered  the  following,  undated,  memorandum  of  the  destined 
contents  of  the  second  and  third  volumes  of  the  work. 


PAUSANIAS. 

VOL.  II. 

Lysander — Sparta — Ephors — Decisions  to  recall  Pausanias.     60. 

Pausanias  with  Pharnabazes — On  the   point   of  success — Xerxes'  daughter — Interview 
with  Cleonice — Recalled.     60. 

Sparta — Alcman  with  his  family.     60. 

Cleonice — Antagoras — Yields  to  suit  of  marriage.    60. 

Pausanias  suddenly  reappears,  as  a  volunteer — Scenes.     60. 

VOL.  III. 

Pausanias  removes  Cleonice,  etc. — Conspiracy  against  him — Up  to  Cleonice's  death.  100. 
His  expulsion   from   Byzantium — His  despair—  His  journey   into    Thrace — Scythians, 
etc.  ? 

Heraclea — Ghost.     60. 

His  return  to  Colonae.     ? 

Antagoras  resolved  on  revenge — Communicates  with  Sparta.     ? 

The  *  *  * — Conference  with  Alcman — Pausanias  depends  on  Helots,  and  money.     40. 

His  return — to  death.     120. 

*  "  Harold." 


DEDICATION.  IX 

This  is  the  only  indication  I  can  find  of  the  intended  conclusion  of  the 
story.  Meagre  though  it  be,  however,  it  sufficiently  suggests  the  manner  in 
which  the  author  of  the  romance  intended  to  deal  with  the  circumstances  of 
Cleonice's  death  as  related  by  Plutarch.  With  her  forcible  removal  by  Pau- 
sanias  or  her  willing  flight  with  him  from  the  house  of  her  father,  it  would 
probably  have  been  difficult  to  reconcile  the  general  sentiment  of  the  romance, 
in  connection  with  any  circumstances  less  conceivable  than_  those  which  are 
indicated  in  the  memorandum.  But  in  such  circumstances  the  step  taken  by 
Pau-anias  might  have  had  no  worse  motive  than  the  rescue  of  the  woman 
who  loved  him  from  forced  union  with  another  ;  and  Cleonice's  assent  to  that 
step  might  have  been  quite  compatible  with  the  purity  and  heroism  of  her 
character.  In  this  matter,  moreover,  a  strong  motive  is  prepared  for  that 
sentiment  of  revenge  on  the  part  of  Antagoras  whereby  the  dramatic  interest 
of  the  st»ry  might  be  greatly  heightened  in  the  subsequent  chapters.  The 
intended  introduction  of  the  supernatural  element  is  also  clearly  indicated. 
But  apart  from  this,  fine  opportunities  for  psychological  analysis  would 
doubtless  have  occuned  in  tracing  the  gradual  deterioration  of  such  a  char- 
acter as  that  of  Pausanias  when,  oeprived  of  ihe  guardian  influence  of  a  hope 
passionate  but  not  impure,  its  craving  for  fierce  excitement  must  have  been 
stimulated  by  remorseful  memories  and  impotent  despairs.  Indeed,  the  im- 
perfect manuscript  now  printed,  contains  only  the  exposition  of  a  tragedy. 
All  the  most  striking  effects,  all  the  strongest  dramatic  situations,  have  been 
reserved  for  the  pages  of  the  manuscript  which,  alas,  are  either  lost  or 
unwritten. 

Who  can  doubt,  for  instance,  how  effectually  in  the  closing  scenes  of  this 
tragedy  the  grim  image  of  Alithea  might  have  assumed  the  place  assigned  to 
it  by  history  ?  All  that  we  now  see  is  the  preparation  made  for  its  effective 
presentation  in  the  foreground  of  such  later  scenes,  by  the  chapter  in  the 
second  volume  describing  the  meeiing  between  Lysanderand  the  stern  mother 
of  his  Spaitan  chief.  In  Lysander  himself,  moreover,  we  have  the  germ  of 
a  singularly  dramatic  situation.  How  would  Lysander  act  in  the  final  strug- 
gle which  his  character  and  fate  are  already  preparing  for  him,  between  patriot- 
ism and  friendship,  his  fidelity  to  Pausanias,  and  his  devotion  to  Sparta  ?  Is 
Lysander's  father  ir  tended  lor  that  Ephor,  who,  in  the  last  moment,  made 
the  sign  that  warned  Pausanias  to  take  refuge  in  the  temple  which  became 
his  living  tomb?  Probably.  Would  Themistocles,  who  was  so  seriously 
compromised  in  the  conspiracy  of  Pausanias,  have  appeared  and  played  a 
part  in  those  scenes  on  which  the  curtain  must  remain  unlifted  ?  Possibly. 
Is  Alcman  the  helot  who  revealed,  to  the  Ephors,  the'gigantic  plots  of  his 
master  just  when  those  plots  were  on  the  eve  of  execution  ?  There  is  much 
in  the  relations  between  Pausanias  and  the  Mothon,  as  they  are  described  in 
the  opening  chapters  of  the  romance,  which  favors,  and  indeed  renders 
almost  irresistible,  such  a  supposition.  But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  what 
genius  on  the  part  of  the  author  could  reconcile  us  to  the  perpetration  by  his 
hero  of  a  crime  so  mean,  so  cowardly,  as  that  personal  perfidy  10  which 
history  ascribes  the  revelation  of  the  Regent's  far  more  excusable  treasons, 
and  their  terrible  punishment? 

These  questions  must  remain  unanswered.  The  magician  can  wave  his 
wand  no  more.  The  circle  is  broken,  the  spells  are  scattered,  the  secret  lost. 
The  images  which  he  evoked,  and  which  he  alone  could  animate,  remain 
before  us  incomplete,  semi-articulate,  unable  to  satisfy  the  curiosity  they 
inspire.  A  group  of  fragments,  in  many  places  broken,  you  have  helped 
me  to  restore-  With  what  reverent  and  kindly  care,  with  what  disciplined 
judgment  and  felicitous  suggestion,  you  have  accomplished  the  difficult  task 


X  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

so  generously  undertaken,  let  me  here  most  gratefully  attest.  Beneath  the 
sculptor's  name,  allow  me  to  inscribe  upon  the  pedestal  your  own  ;  and 
uro-|>t  this  sincere  assurance  of  the  inherited  esteem  and  personal  regard 
with  which  I  am, 

My  dear  Dr.  Kennedy, 

Your  obliged  and  faithful 

LYTTON. 
CINTRA,  5  July,  1875. 


PAUSANIAS,  THE  SPARTAN. 


BOOK  I. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ON  one  of  the  quays  which  bordered  the  unrivalled  harbor 
of  Byzantium,  more  than  twenty-three  centuries  before  the  date 
at  which  this  narrative  is  begun,  stood  two  Athenians.  In  the 
waters  of  the  haven  rode  the  vessels  of  the  Grecian  Fleet.  So 
deep  was  the  basin,  in  which  the  tides  are  scarcely  felt,*  that 
the  prows  of  some  of  the  ships  touched  the  quays,  and  the  set- 
ting sun  glittered  upon  the  smooth  and  waxen  surfaces  of  the 
prows  rich  with  diversified  colors  and  wrought  gilding.  To 
the  extreme  right  of  the  fleet,  and  nearly  opposite  the  place 
upon  which  the  Athenians  stood,  was  a  vessel  still  more  pro- 
fusely ornamented  than  the  rest.  On  the  prow  were  elaborately 
carved  the  heads  of  the  twin  deities  of  the  Laconian  mariner, 
Castor  and  Pollux  ;  in  the  centre  of  the  deck  was  a  wooden 
edifice  or  pavilion  having  a  gilded  roof  and  shaded  by  purple 
awnings,  an  imitation  of  the  luxurious  galleys  of  the  Barbarian  ; 
while  the  parasemon,  or  flag,  as  it  idly  waved  in  the  faint 
breeze  of  the  gentle  evening,  exhibited  the  terrible  serpent, 
which,  if  it  was  the  fabulous  type  of  demigods  and  heroes, 
might  also  be  regarded  as  an  emblem  of  the  wily  but  stern 
policy  of  the  Spartan  State.  Such  was  the  galley  of  the  com- 
mander of  the  armament,  which  (after  the  reduction  of  Cyprus) 
had  but  lately  wrested  from  the  yoke  of  Persia  that  link  be- 
tween her  European  and  Asiatic  domains,  that  key  of  the  Bos- 
phorus — "  the  Golden  Horn  "  of  Byzantium. f 

*  Gibbon,  ch.    17. 

t  "  The  harbor  of  Constantinople,  which  may  be  considered  as  an  arm  of  the  Bosphorus, 
obtained  in  a  very  remote  period  the  denomination  of  the  Golden  Horn.  The  curve 
which  it  describes  might  be  compared  to  the  horn  of  a  stag,  or,  as  it  should  seem,  with 
more  propriety  to  that  of  an  ox.'  — Gib.,  c,  17  ;  Strab.,  1,  x, 

II 


12  PAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

High  above  all  other  Greeks  (Themistocles  alone  excepted) 
soared  the  fame  of  that  renowned  chief,  Pausanias,  Regent  of 
Sparta  and  General  of  the  allied  troops  at  the  victorious  battle- 
field of  Plataea.  The  spot  on  which  the  Athenians  stood  was 
lonely  and  now  unoccupied,  save  by  themselves  and  the  sentries 
stationed  at  some  distance  on  either  hand.  The  larger  propor- 
tion of  the  crews  in  the  various  vessels  were  on  shore  ;  but  on 
the  decks  idly  reclined  small  groups  of  sailors,  and  the  murmur 
of  their  voices  stole,  indistinguishably  blended,  upon  the  trans- 
lucent air.  Behind  rose,  one  above  the  other,  the  Seven  Hills, 
on  which  long  afterwards  the  Emperor  Constantine  built  a 
second  Rome  ;  and  over  these  heights,  even  then,  buildings 
were  scattered  of  various  forms  and  dates — here  the  pillared 
temples  of  the  Greek  colonists,  to  whom  Byzantium  owed  its 
origin,  there  the  light  roofs  and  painted  domes  which  the 
Eastern  conquerors  had  introduced. 

One  of  the  Athenians  was  a  man  in  the  meridian  of  man- 
hood, of  a  calm,  sedate,  but  somewhat  haughty  aspect  ;  the 
other  was  in  the  full  bloom  of  youth,  of  lofty  stature,  and  with 
a  certain  majesty  of  bearing  ;  down  his  shoulders  flowed  a 
profusion  of  long,  curled  hair,*  divided  in  the  centre  of  the 
forehead,  and  connected  with  golden  clasps,  in  which  was 
wrought  the  emblem  of  the  Athenian  nobles — the  Grasshopper — 
a  fashion  not  yet  obsolete,  as  it  had  become  in  the  days  of 
Thucydides.  Still,  to  an  observer,  there  was  something  heavy 
in  the  ordinary  expression  of  the  handsome  countenance.  His 
dress  differed  from  the  earlier  fashion  of  the  lonians  ;  it  dis- 
pensed with  those  loose  linen  garments  which  had  something 
of  effeminacy  in  their  folds,  and  was  confined  to  the  simple 
and  statue-like  grace  that  characterized  the  Dorian  garb.  Yet 
the  clasp  that  fastened  the  chlamys  upon  the  right  shoulder, 
leaving  the  arm  free,  was  of  pure  gold  and  exquisite  workman- 
ship, and  the  materials  of  the  simple  vesture  were  of  a  quality 
that  betokened  wealth  and  rank  in  the  wearer. 

"  Yes,  Cimon,"  said  the  elder  of  the  Athenians,  "  yonder  gal- 
ley itself  affords  sufficient  testimony  of  the  change  that  has 
come  over  the  haughty  Spartan.  It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  rec- 
ognize in  this  luxurious  satrap,  who  affects  the  dress,  the  man- 
ners, the  very  insolence  of  the  Barbarian,  that  Pausanias,  who, 
after  the  glorious  day  of  Platsea,  ordered  the  slaves  to  prepare 
in  the  tent  of  Mardonius  such  a  banquet  as  would  have  been 
served  to  the  Persian,  while  his  own  Spartan  broth  and  bread 
were  set  beside  it,  in  order  that  he  might  utter  to  the  chiefs  of 

*  Ion  aj>ud  Plut, 


PAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN.  13 

Greece  that  noble  pleasantry  :  '  Behold  the  folly  of  the  Persians 
who  forsook  such  splendor  to  plunder  such  poverty.'  "  * 

"  Shame  upon  his  degeneracy,  and  thrice  shame  !  "  said  the 
young  Cimon  sternly.  "I  love  the  Spartans  so  well,  that  I 
blush  for  whatever  degrades  them.  And  all  Sparta  is  dwarfed 
by  the  effeminacy  of  her  chief." 

"  Softly,  Cimon,"  said  Aristides,  with  a  sober  smile.  "  What- 
ever surprise  we  may  feel  at  the  corruption  of  Pausanias,  he  is 
not  one  who  will  allow  us  to  feel  contempt.  Through  all  the 
voluptuous  softness  acquired  by  intercourse  with  these  Barba- 
rians, the  strong  nature  of  the  descendant  of  the  demigod 
still  breaks  forth.  Even  at  the  distaff  I  recognize  Alcides, 
whether  for  evil  or  for  good.  Pausanias  is  one  on  whom  our 
most  anxious  gaze  must  be  duly  bent.  But  in  this  change  of 
his  rejoice  ;  the  gods  are  at  work  for  Athens.  See  you  not 
that,  day  after  day,  while  Pausanias  disgusts  the  allies 
with  the  Spartans  themselves,  he  throws  them  more  and  more 
into  the  arms  of  Athens?  Let  his  madness  go  on,  and  ere 
long  the  violet-crowned  city  will  become  the  queen  of  the 
seas." 

"Such  was  my  own  hope,"  said  Cimon,  his  face  assuming  a 
new  expression,  brightened  with  all  the  intelligence  of  ambition 
and  pride  ;  "  but  I  did  not  dare  own  it  to  myself  till  you  spoke. 
Several  officers  of  Ionia  and  the  Isles  have  already  openly  and 
loudly  proclaimed  to  me  their  wish  to  exchange  the  Spartan  as- 
cendancy for  the  Athenian." 

"  And  with  all  your  love  for  Sparta,"  said  Aristides,  looking 
steadfastly  and  searchingly  at  his  comrade,  "  you  would  not 
then  hesitate  to  rob  her  of  a  glory  which  you  might  bestow  on 
your  own  Athens  ?  " 

"Ah,  am  I  not  Athenian?"  answered  Cimon,  with  a  deep 
passion  in  his  voice.  "  Though  my  great  father  perished  a 
victim  to  the  injustice  of  a  faction  ;  though  he  who  had  saved 
Athens  from  the  Mede  died  in  the  Athenian  dungeon — still, 
fatherless,  I  see  in  Athens  but  a  mother,  and  if  her  voice 
sounded  harshly  in  my  boyish  years,  in  manhood  I  have  feasted 
on  her  smiles.  Yes,  I  honor  Sparta,  but  I  love  Athens.  You 
have  my  answer." 

"  You  speak  well,"  said  Aristides,  with  warmth  ;  "  you  are 
worthy  of  the  destinies  for  which  I  foresee  that  the  son  of 
Miltiades  is  reserved.  Be  wary,  be  cautious  ;  above  all,  be 
smooth,  and  blend  with  men  of  every  state  and  grade.  I  would 
wish  that  the  allies  themselves  should  draw  the  contrast  between 

*  Herod.,  ix.  8». 


14  PAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

the  insolence  of  the  Spartan  chief  and  the  courtesy  of  the 
Athenians.  What  said  you  to  the  Ionian  officers?" 

"  I  said  that  Athens  held  there  was  no  difference  between  to 
command  and  to  obey,  except  so  far  as  was  best  for  the  interests 
of  Greece  ;  that — as  on  the  field  of  Plataea,  when  the  Tegeans 
asserted  precedence  over  the  Athenians,  we,  the  Athenian 
army,  at  once  exclaimed,  through  your  voice,  Aristides  :  '  We 
come  here  to  fight  the  Barbarian,  not  to  dispute  amongst  our- 
selves !  place  us  where  you  will ':  * — even  so  now,  while  the 
allies  give  the  command  to  Sparta,  Sparta  we  will  obey.  But 
if  we  were  thought  by  the  Grecian  States  the  fittest  leaders,  our 
answer  would  be  the  same  that  we  gave  at  Plataea  :  '  Not  we, 
but  Greece  be  consulted  :  place  us  where  you  will  ! ' ' 

"  O  wise  Cimon  !  "  exclaimed  Aristides,  "  I  have  no  caution 
to  bestow  on  you.  You  do  by  intuition  that  which  I  attempt 
by  experience.  But  hark  !  What  music  sounds  in  \he  dis- 
tance ?  The  airs  that  Lydia  borrowed  from  the  East?  '' 

"  And  for  which,"  said  Cimon  sarcastically,  "  Pausanias 
hath  abandoned  the  Dorian  flute." 

Soft,  airy,  and  voluptuous  were  indeed  the  sounds  which  now, 
from  the  streets  leading  upwards  from  the  quay,  floated  along 
the  delicious  air.  The  sailors  rose,  listening  and  eager,  from 
the  decks ;  there  was  once  more  bustle,  life,  and  animation  on 
board  the  fleet.  From  several  of  the  vessels  the  trumpets  woke 
a  sonorous  signal-note.  In  a  few  minutes  the  quays,  before  so 
deserted,  swarmed  with  the  Grecian  mariners,  who  emerged 
hastily,  whether  from  various  houses  in  the  haven,  or  from  the 
encampment  which  stretched  along  it,  and  hurried  to  their 
respective  ships.  On  board  the  galley  of  Pausanias  there  was 
more  especial  animation  ;  not  only  mariners,  but  slaves,  evi- 
dently from  the  Eastern  markets,  were  seen,  jostling  each  other, 
and  heard  talking,  quick  and  loud,  in  foreign  tongues.  Rich 
carpets  were  unfurled  and  laid  across  the  desk,  while  trembling 
and  hasty  hands  smoothed  into  yet  more  graceful  folds  the 
curtains  that  shaded  the  gay  pavilion  in  the  centre.  The 
Athenians  looked  on,  the  one  with  thoughtful  composure,  the 
other  with  a  bitter  smile,  while  these  preparations  announced 
the  unexpected,  and  not  undreaded,  approach  of  the  great  Pau- 
sanias. 

"  Ho,  noble  Cimon  !  "  cried  a  young  man  who,  hurrying 
towards  one  of  the  vessels,  caught  sight  of  the  Athenians  and 
paused.  "  You  are  the  very  person  whom  I  most  desired  to 
see.  Aristides  too  ! — we  are  fortunate." 

*  Plut.  in  Vit.  Arist. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  15 

The  speaker  was  a  young  man  of  slighter  make  and  lower 
stature  than  the  Athenians,  but  well  shaped,  and  with  features 
the  partial  effeminacy  of  which  was  elevated  by  an  expression 
of  great  vivacity  and  intelligence.  The  steed  trained  for  Elis 
never  bore  in  its  proportions  the  evidence  of  blood  and  rare 
breeding  more  visibly  than  the  dark,  brilliant  eye  of  this  young 
man,  his  broad,  low,  transparent  bow,  expanded  nostril  and 
sensitive  lip,  revealed  the  passionate  and  somewhat  arrogant 
character  of  the  vivacious  Greek  of  the  ^Egean  Isles. 

"  Antagoras,"  replied  Cimon,  laying  his  hand  with  frank  and 
somewhat  blunt  cordiality  on  the  Greek's  shoulder,  "like  the 
grape  of  your  own  Chios,  you  cannot  fail  to  be  welcome  at  all 
times.  But  why  would  you  seek  us  now  ?  " 

"  Because  I  will  no  longer  endure  t'ne  insolence  of  this  rude 
Spartan.  Will  you  believe  it,  Cimon — will  you  believe  it, 
Aristides?  Pausanias  has  actually  dared  to  sentence  to  blows, 
to  stripes,  one  of  my  own  men — a  free  Chian — nay,  a  Decad- 
archus.*  I  have  but  this  instant  heard  it.  And  the  offence — 
Gods!  the  offence! — was  that  he  ventured  to  contest  with  a 
Laconian,  an  underling  in  the  Spartan  army,  which  one  of  the 
two  had  the  fair  right  to  a  wine  cask  !  Shall  this  be  borne, 
Cimon  ? " 

"  Stripes  to  a  Greek  ? "  said  Cimon,  and  the  color  mounted 
to  his  brow.  "  Thinks  Pausanias  that  the  Ionian  race  are 
already  his  Helots?" 

"  Be  calm,"  said  Aristides  ;  "  Pausanias  approaches.  I  will 
accost  him." 

"  But  listen  still ! "  exclaimed  Antagoras  eagerly,  plucking 
the  gown  of  the  Athenian  as  the  latter  turned  away.  "  When 
Pausanias  heard  of  the  contest  between  my  soldier  and  his 
Laconian,  what  said  he,  think  you  ?  '  Prior  claim  ;  learn  hence- 
forth that,  where  the  Spartans  are  to  be  found,  the  Spartans  in 
all  matters  have  the  prior  claim.'  " 

"  We  will  see  to  it,"  returned  Aristides  calmly  ;  "  but  keep 
by  my  side." 

And  now  the  music  sounded  loud  and  near,  and  suddenly,  as 
the  procession  approached,  the  character  of  that  music  altered. 
The  Lydian  measures  ceased  ;  those  who  had  attuned  them 
gave  way  to  musicians  of  loftier  aspect  and  simpler  garb  ;  in 
whom  might  be  recognized,  not  indeed  the  genuine  Spartans, 
but  their  free,  if  subordinate,  countrymen  of  Laconia  ;  and  a 
minstrel,  who  walked  beside  them,  broke  out  into  a  song, 
partially  adapted  from  the  bold  and  lively  strain  of  Alcaeus, 

*  Leader  of  ten  men. 


l6  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

the  first  two  lines  in  each  stanza  ringing  much  to  that  chime, 
the  two  latter  reduced  into  briefer  compass,  as,  with  allowance 
for  the  differing  laws  of  national  rhythm,  we  thus  seek  to  ren- 
der the  verse : 

SONG. 

Multitudes,  backward  !     Way  for   the  Dorian : 
Way  for  the  Lord  of  rocky  Laconia  ; 
Heaven  to  Hercules  opened 
Way  on  the  earth  for  his  son. 

Steel  and  fate,  blunted,  break  on  his  fortitude  : 
Two  evils  only  never  endureth  he — 
Death  by  a  wound  in  retreating, 
Life  with  a  plot  on  his  name. 

Rocky  his  birthplace  ;  rocks  are  immutable  ; 
So  are  his  laws,  and  so  shall  his  glory  be. 
Time  is  the  Victor  of  Nations, 
Sparta  the  Victor  of  Time. 

Watch  o'er  him  heedful  on  the  wide  ocean, 
Brothers  of  Helen,  luminous  guiding  stars  ; 
Dangerous  to  Truth  are  the  fickle, 
Dangerous  to  Sparta  the  seas. 

Multitudes,  backward  !    Way  for  the  Conqueror  ; 
Way  for  the  footstep  half  the  world  fled  before  ; 

Nothing  that  Phoebus  can  shine  on  » 

Needs  so  much  space  as  Renown. 

Behind  the  musicians  came  ten  Spartans,  selected  from  the 
celebrated  three  hundred  who  claimed  the  right  to  be  stationed 
around  the  King  in  battle.  Tall,  stalwart,  sheathed  in  armor, 
their  shields  slung  at  their  backs,  their  crests  of  plumage  or 
horsehair  waving  over  their  strong  and  stern  features,  these 
hardy  warriors  betrayed  to  the  keen  eye  of  Aristides  their 
sullen  discontent  at  the  part  assigned  to  them  in  the  luxurious 
procession  ;  their  brows  were  knit,  their  lips  contracted,  and 
each  of  them  who  caught  the  glance  of  the  Athenians,  turned 
his  eyes,  as  half  in  shame,  half  in  anger,  to  the  ground. 

Coming  now  upon  the  quay,  opposite  to  the  galley  of  Pausa- 
nias,  from  which  was  suspended  a  ladder  of  silken  cords,  the 
procession  halted  and,  opening  on  either  side,  left  space  in  the 
midst  for  the  commander. 

"He  comes,"  whispered  Antagoras  to  Cimon.  "By  Her- 
cules !  I  pray  you  survey  him  well.  Is  it  the  conqueror  of 
Mardonius,  or  the  ghost  of  Mardonius  himself  ?  " 

The  question  of  the  Chian  seemed  not  extravagant  to  the 
blunt  son  of  Miltiades,  as  his  eyes  now  rested  on  Pausanias. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  If 

The  pure  Spartan  race  boasted,  perhaps,  the  most  superb 
models  of  masculine  beauty  which  the  land  blessed  by  Apollo 
could  afford.  The  laws  that  regulate  marriage  ensured  a 
healthful  and  vigorous  progeny.  Gymnastic  discipline  from 
early  boyhood  gave  ease  to  the  limbs,  iron  to  the  muscle,  grace 
to  the  whole  frame.  Every  Spartan,  being  born  to  command, 
being  noble  by  his  birth,  lord  of  the  Laconians,  Master  of  the 
Helots,  superior  in  the  eyes  of  Greece  to  all  other  Greeks, 
was  at  once  a  Republican  and  an  Aristocrat.  Schooled  in  the 
arts  that  compose  the  presence,  and  give  calm  and  majesty 
to  the  bearing,  he  combined  with  the  mere  physical  advanta- 
ges of  activity  and  strength  a  conscious  and  yet  natural  dignity 
of  mien.  Amidst  the  Greeks  assembled  at  the  Olympian  con- 
tests, others  showed  richer  garments,  more  sumptuous  chariots, 
rarer  steeds,  but  no  state  could  vie  with  Sparta  in  the  the\vs 
and  sinews,  the  aspect  and  the  majesty  of  the  men.  Nor  were 
the  royal  race,  the  descendants  of  Hercules,  in  external  ap- 
pearance unworthy  of  their  countrymen  and  of  their  fabled 
origin. 

Sculptor  and  painter  would  have  vainly  tasked  their  imagi- 
native minds  to  invent  a  nobler  ideal  for  the  effigies  of  a  hero, 
than  that  which  the  Victor  of  Platasa  offered  to  their  inspira- 
tion. As  he  now  paused  amidst  the  group,  he  towered  high 
above  them  all,  even  above  Cimon  himself.  But  in  his  stature 
there  was  nothing  of  the  cumbrous  bulk  and  stolid  heaviness 
which  often  destroy  the  beauty  of  vast  strength.  Severe  and 
early  training,  long  habits  of  rigid  abstemiousness,  the  toils  of 
war,  and  more  than  all,  perhaps,  the  constant  play  of  a  restless, 
anxious,  aspiring  temper,  had  left,  undisfigured  by  superfluous 
flesh,  the  grand  proportions  of  a  frame,  the  very  spareness  of 
which  had  at  once  the  strength  and  the  beauty  of  one  of  those 
hardy  victors  in  the  wrestling  or  boxing  match,  whose  agility 
and  force  are  modelled  by  discipline  to  the  purest  forms  of 
grace.  Without  that  exact  and  chiselled  harmony  of  counte- 
nance which  characterized,  perhaps,  the  Ionic  rather  than  the 
Doric  race,  the  features  of  the  royal  Spartan  were  noble  and 
commanding.  His  complexion  was  sunburnt,  almost  to  Ori- 
ental swarthiness,  and  the  raven's  plume  had  no  darker  gloss 
than  that  of  his  long  hair,  which  (contrary  to  the  Spartan  cus- 
tom), flowing  on  either  side,  mingled  with  the  closer  curls  of 
the  beard.  To  a  scrutinizing  gaze,  the  more  dignified  and 
prepossessing  effect  of  this  exterior  would  perhaps  have  been 
counterbalanced  by  an  eye,  bright  indeed  and  penetrating, 
but  restless  and  suspicious,  by  a  certain  ineffable  mixture  of 


l8  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

arrogant  pride  and  profound  melancholy  in  the  general  expres- 
sion of  the  countenance,  ill  according  with  that  frank  and 
serene  aspect  which  best  becomes  the  face  of  one  who  would 
lead  mankind.  About  him  altogether — the  countenance,  the 
form,  the  bearing — there  was  that  which  woke  a  vague,  pro-' 
found,  and  singular  interest — an  interest  somewhat  mingled 
with  awe,  but  not  altogether  uncalculated  to  produce  that  affec- 
tion which  belongs  to  admiration,  save  when  the  sudden  frown 
or  disdainful  lip  repelled  the  gentler  impulse  and  tended  rather 
to  excite  fear,  or  to  irritate  pride,  or  to  wound  self-love. 

But  if  the  form  and  features  of  Pausanias  were  eminently 
those  of  the  purest  race  of  Greece,  the  dress  which  he  assumed 
was  no  less  characteristic  of  the  Barbarian.  He  wore,  not  the 
garb  of  the  noble  Persian  race,  which,  close  and  simple,  was  but 
a  little  less  manly  than  that  of  the  Greeks,  but  the  flowing  and 
gorgeous  garments  of  the  Mede.  His  long  gown,  which  swept 
the  earth,  was  covered  with  flowers  wrought  in  golden  tissue. 
Instead  of  the  Spartan  hat,  the  high  Median  cap  or  tiara 
crowned  his  perfumed  and  lustrous  hair,  while  (what  of  all  was 
most  hateful  to  Grecian  eyes)  he  wore,  though  otherwise  un- 
armed, the  curved  scimjtar  and  short  dirk  that  were  the  national 
weapons  of  the  Barbarian.  And  as  it  was  not  customary,  nor 
indeed  legitimate,  for  the  Greeks  to  wear  weapons  on  peace- 
ful occasions  and  with  their  ordinary  costume,  so  this  departure 
from  the  common  practice  had  not  only  in  itself  something 
offensive  to  the  jealous  eyes  of  his  comrades,  but  was  rendered 
yet  more  obnoxious  by  the  adoption  of  the  very  arms  of  the 
East. 

By  the  side  of  Pausanias  was  a  man  whose  dark  beard  was 
already  sown  with  gray.  This  man,  named  Gongylus,  though 
a  Greek — a  native  of  Eretria,  in  Euboea — was  in  high  com- 
mand under  the  great  Persian  King.  At  the  time  of  the  Bar- 
barian invasion  under  Datis  and  Artaphernes,  he  had  deserted 
the  cause  of  Greece  and  had  been  rewarded  with  the  lordship 
of  four  towns  in  ^olis.  Few  among  the  apostate  Greeks  were 
more  deeply  instructed  in  the  language  and  manners  of  the 
Persians ;  and  the  intimate  and  sudden  friendship  that  had 
grown  up  between  him  and  the  Spartan  was  regarded  by  the 
Greeks  with  the  most  bitter  and  angry  suspicion.  As  if  to 
show  his  contempt  for  the  natural  jealousy  of  his  countrymen, 
Pausanias,  however,  had  just  given  to  the  Eretrian  the  govern- 
ment of  Byzantium  itself,  and  with  the  command  of  the  citadel 
had  entrusted  to  him  the  custody  of  the  Persian  prisoners  cap- 
tured in  that  port.  Among  these  were  men  of  the  highest  rank 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  19 

and  influence  at  the  court  of  Xerxes  ;  and  it  was  more  than 
rumored  that  of  late  Pausanias  had  visited  and  conferred  with 
them,  through  the  interpretation  of  Gongylus,  far  more  fre- 
quently than  became  the  General  of  the  Greeks.  Gongylus  had 
one  of  those  countenances  which  are  observed  when  many  of 
more  striking  semblance  are  overlooked.  But  the  features 
were  sharp  and  the  visage  lean,  the  eyes  vivid  and  sparkling  as 
those  of  the  lynx,  and  the  dark  pupil  seemed  yet  more  dark 
from  the  extreme  whiteness  of  the  ball,  from  which  it  lessened 
or  dilated  with  the  impulse  of  the  spirit  which  gave  it  fire. 
There  was  in  that  eye  all  the  subtle  craft,  the  plotting  and  rest- 
less malignity,  which  usually  characterized  those  Greek  rene- 
gades who  prostituted  their  native  energies  to  the  rich  service 
of  the  Barbarian  ;  and  the  lips,  narrow  and  thin,  wore  that 
everlasting  smile  which  to  the  credulous  disguises  wile,  and  to 
the  experienced  betrays  it.  Small,  spare,  and  prematurely 
bent,  the  Eretrian  supported  himself  by  a  staff,  upon  which 
now  leaning,  he  glanced  quickly  and  pryingly  around,  till  his 
eyes  rested  upon  the  Athenians,  with  the  young  Chian  standing 
in  their  rear. 

"  The  Athenian  captains  are  here  to  do  you  homage,  Pausa- 
nias," said  he  in  a  whisper,  as  he  touched  with  his  small,  lean 
fingers  the  arm  of  the  Spartan. 

Pausanias  turned  and  muttered  to  himself,  and  at  that  in- 
stant Aristides  approached. 

"  If  it  please  you,  Pausanias,  Cimon  and  myself,  the  leaders 
of  the  Athenians,  would  crave  a  hearing  upon  certain  matters." 

"Son  of  Lysimachus,  say  on." 

"  Your  pardon,  Pausanias,"  returned  the  Athenian,  lowering 
his  voice,  and  with  a  smile  ;  "  this  is  too  crowded  a  council- 
hall  ;  may  we  attend  you  on  board  your  galley  ?  " 

"  Not  so,"  answered  the  Spartan  haughtily  ;  "  the  morning  to 
affairs,  the.  evening  to  recreation.  We  shall  sail  in  the  bay  to 
see  the  moon  rise,  and  if  we  indulge  in  consultations,  it  will  be 
over  our  winecups.  It  is  a  good  custom." 

"  It  is  a  Persian  one,"  said  Cimon  bluntly. 

"It  is  permitted  to  us,"  returned  the  Spartan  coldly,  "to 
borrow  from  those  we  conquer.  But  enough  of  this.  I  have 
no  secrets  with  the  Athenians.  No  matter  if  the  whole  city 
hear  what  you  would  address  to  Pausanias." 

"It  is  to  complain,"  said  Aristides  with  calm  emphasis,  but 
still  in  an  undertone. 

"  Ay,  I  doubt  it  not :  the  Athenians  are  eloquent  in  grum- 
bling." 


20  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

"  It  was  not  found  so  at  Plataea,"  returned  Cimon. 

"Son  of  Miltiades,"  said  Pausanias  loftily,  "your  wit 
outruns  your  experience.  But  my  time  is  short.  To  the 
matter  !  " 

"  If  you  will  have  it  so,  I  will  speak,"  said  Aristides,  raising 
his  voice.  "Before  your  own  Spartans,  our  comrades  in  arms, 
I  proclaim  our  causes  of  complaint.  Firstly,  then,  I  demand 
release  and  compensation  to  seven  Athenians,  free-born  and 
citizens,  whom  your  orders  have  condemned  to  the  unworthy 
punishment  of  standing  all  day  in  the  open  sun  with  the  weight 
of  iron  anchors  on  their  shoulders." 

"  The  mutinous  knaves  !  "  exclaimed  the  Spartan.  "  They 
introduced  into  the  camp  the  insolence  of  their  own  agora,  and 
were  publicly  heard  in  the  streets  inveighing  against  myself  as 
a  favorer  of  the  Persians." 

"It  was  easy  to  confute  the  charge;  it  was  tyrannical  to 
punish  words  in  men  whose  deeds  had  raised  you  to  the  com- 
mand of  Greece." 

"  Their  deeds  !  Ye  Gods,  give  me  patience  !  By  the  help 
of  Juno  the  protectress  it  was  this  brain  and  this  arm  that — 
But  I  will  not  justify  myself  by  imitating  the  Athenian  fashion 
of  wordy  boasting.  Pass  on  to  your  next  complaint." 

"You  have  placed  slaves — yes,  Helots — around  the  springs, 
to  drive  away  with  scourges  the  soldiers  that  come  for  water." 

"  Not  so,  but  merely  to  prevent  others  from  filling  their  vases 
until  the  Spartans  are  supplied." 

"  And  by  what  right —  ? "  began  Cimon,  but  Aristides  checked 
him  with  a  gesture,  and  proceeded. 

"That  precedence  is  not  warranted  by  custom,  nor  by  the 
terms  of  our  alliance  ;  and  the  springs,  O  Pausanias,  are  boun- 
teous enough  to  provide  for  all.  I  proceed.  You  have  form- 
ally sentenced  citizens  and  soldiers  to  the  scourge.  Nay,  this 
very  day  you  have  extended  the  sentence  to  one  in  actual  com- 
mand amongst  the  Chians.  Is  it  not  so,  Antagoras  ?  " 

"  It  is,"  said  the  young  Chian,  coming  forward  boldly  ; 
"  and  in  the  name  of  my  countrymen  I  demand  justice." 

"  And  I  also,  Uliades  of  Samos,"  said  a  thickset  and  burly 
Greek  who  had  joined  the  group  unobserved,  "/  demand  jus- 
tice. What,  by  the  Gods  !  Are  we  to  be  all  equals  in  the  day 
of  battle  ?  '  My  good  sir,  march  here,'  and,  '  My  dear  sir,  just 
run  into  that  breach  ' ;  and  yet  when  we  have  won  the  victory 
and  should  share  the  glory,  is  one  state,  nay,  one  man  to  seize 
the  whole,  and  deal  out  iron  anchors  and  tough  cowhides  to 
his  companions  ?  No,  Spartans,  this  is  not  your  view  of  the 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPAfcTAN.  21 

Case  ;  you  suffer  in  the  eyes  of  Greece  by  this  misconduct. 
To  Sparta  itself  I  appeal." 

"  And  what,  most  patient  sir,"  said  Pausanias,  with  calm 
sarcasm,  though  his  eye  shot  fire,  and  the  upper  lip,  on  which 
no  Spartan  suffered  the  beard  to  grow,  slightly  quivered — 
"  what  is  your  contribution  to  the  catalogue  of  complaints  ?" 

"  Jest  not,  Pausanias  ;  you  will  find  me  in  earnest,"  answered 
Uliades  doggedly,  and  encouraged  by  the  evident  effect  that 
his  eloquence  had  produced  upon  the  Spartans  themselves. 
"  I  have  met  with  a  grievous  wrong,  and  all  Greece  shall  hear 
of  it,  if  it  be  not  redressed.  My  own  brother,  who  at  Mycale 
slew  four  Persians  with  his  own  hand,  headed  a  detachment 
for  forage.  He  and  his  men  were  met  by  a  company  of  mixed 
Laconians  and  Helots,  their  forage  taken  from  them,  they 
themselves  assaulted,  and  my  brother,  a  man  who  has  moneys 
and  maintains  forty  slaves  of  his  own,  struck  thrice  across  the 
face  by  a  rascally  Helot.  Now,  Pausanias,  your  answer  ! " 

"  You  have  prepared  a  notable  scene  for  the  commander  of 
your  forces,  son  of  Lysimachus,"  said  the  Spartan,  addressing 
himself  to  Aristides.  "  Far  be  it  from  me  to  affect  the 
Agamemnon,  but  your  friends  are  less  modest  in  imitating  the 
venerable  model  of  Thersites.  Enough  (and  changing  the 
tone  of  his  voice,  the  chief  stamped  his  foot  vehemently  to  the 
ground)  :  we  owe  no  account  to  our  inferiors ;  we  render  no 
explanation  save  to  Sparta  and  her  Ephors." 

"  So  be  it,  then,"  said  Aristides  gravely  ;  "  we  have  our 
answer,  and  you  will  hear  of  our  appeal." 

Pausanias  changed  color.  "  How  ?  "  said  he,  with  a  slight 
hesitation  in  his  tone.  "  Mean  you  to  threaten  me — Me — with 
carrying  the  busy  tales  of  your  disaffection  to  the  Spartan 
government  ? " 

"  Time  will  show.  Farewell,  Pausanias.  We  will  detain  you 
no  longer  from  your  pastime." 

"  But,"  began  Uliades. 

"Hush,"  said  the  Athenian,  laying  his  hand  on  the  Samian's 
shoulder.  "  We  will  confer  anon." 

Pausanias  paused  a  moment,  irresolute  and  in  thought.  His 
eyes  glanced  towards  his  own  countrymen,  who,  true  to  their 
rigid  discipline,  neither  spake  nor  moved,  but  whose  counte- 
nances were  sullen  and  overcast,  and  at  that  moment  his  pride 
was  shaken,  and  his  heart  misgave  him.  Gongylus  watched 
his  countenance,  and  once  more  laying  his  hand  on  his  arm, 
said  in  a  whisper  : 

"  He  who  seeks  to  rule  never  goes  back." 


|2  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

"Tush,  you  know  not  the  Spartans." 

"But  I  know  Human  Nature;  it  is  the  same  everywhere. 
You  cannot  yield  to  this  insolence  ;  to-morrow,  of  your  own 
accord,  send  for  these  men  separately  and  pat.iy  them." 

"  You  are  right.     Now  to  the  vessel !  " 

With  this,  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  the  Persian,  and  with  a 
slight  wave  of  his  hand  towards  the  Athenians — he  did  not 
deign  even  that  gesture  to  the  island  officers — Pausanias 
advanced  to  the  vessel,  and  slowly  ascending,  disappeared 
within  his  pavilion.  The  Spartans  and  the  musicians  followed  ; 
then,  spare  and  swarthy,  some  half  score  of  Egyptian  sailors  ; 
last  came  a  small  party  of  Laconiansand  Helots,  who,  standing 
at  some  distance  behind  Pausanias,  had  not  hitherto  been 
observed.  The  former  were  but  slightly  armed  ;  the  latter  had 
forsaken  their  customary  rude  and  savage  garb,  and  wore  long 
gowns  and  gay  tunics,  somewhat  in  the  fashion  of  the  Lydians. 
With  these  last  there  was  one  of  a  mien  and  aspect  that  strongly 
differed  from  the  lowering  and  ferocious  cast  of  countenance 
common  to  the  Helot  race.  He  was  of  the  ordinary  stature, 
and  his  frame  was  not  characterized  by  any  appearance  of 
unusual  strength  ;  but  he  trod  the  earth  with  a  firm  step  and 
an  erect  crest,  as  if  the  curse  of  the  slave  had  not  yet  destroyed 
the  inborn  dignity  of  the  human  being.  There  was  a  certain 
delicacy  and  refinement,  rather  of  thought  than  beauty,  in  his 
clear,  sharp,  and  singularly  intelligent  features.  In  contradis- 
tinction from  the  free-born  Spartans  his  hair  was  short,  and 
curled  close  above  a  broad  and  manly  forehead  ;  and  his  large 
eyes  of  dark  blue  looked  full  and  bold  upon  the  Athenians 
with  something,  if  not  of  defiance,  at  least  of  pride  in  their 
gaze,  as  he  stalked  by  them  to  the  vessel. 

"  A  sturdy  fellow  for  a  Helot,"  muttered  Cimon. 

"And  merits  well  his  freedom,"  said  the  son  of  Lysimachus. 
"  I  remember  him  well.  He  is  Alcman,  the  foster-brother  of 
Pausanias,  whom  he  attended  at  Platsea.  Not  a  Spartan  that 
day  bore  himself  more  bravely." 

"  No  doubt  they  will  put  him  to  death  when  he  goes  back  to 
Sparta,"  said  Antagoras.  "  When  a  Helot  is  brave,  the  Ephors 
clap  the  black  mark  against  his  name,  and  at  the  next  crypteia 
he  suddenly  disappears." 

"  Pausanias  may  share  the  same  fate  as  his  Helot,  for  all  I 
care,"  quoth  Uliades.  "  Well,  Athenians,  what  say  you  to  the 
answer  we  have  received  ?  " 

"  That  Sparta  shall  hear  of  it,"  answered  Aristides. 

"  Ah,  but  is  that  all  ?    Recollect  the  lonians  have  the  major- 


PAUSANiAS,    TNE    SPARTAN.  23 

ity  in  the  fleet ;  let  us  not  wait  for  the  slow  Ephors.  Let  us 
at  once  throw  off  this  insufferable  yoke,  and  proclaim  Athens 
the  Mistress  of  the  Seas.  What  say  you,  Cimon  ?  " 

"  Let  Aristides  answer." 

"  Yonder  lie  the  Athenian  vessels,"  said  Aristides.  "  Those 
who  put  themselves  voluntarily  under  our  protection  we  will 
not  reject.  But  remember  we  assert  no  claim  ;  we  yield  but  to 
the  general  wish." 

"  Enough  ;  I  understand  you,"  said  Antagoras. 

"  Not  quite,"  returned  the  Athenian,  with  a  smile.  "  The 
breach  between  you  and  Pausanias  is  begun,  but  it  is  not  yet 
wide  enough.  You  yourselves  must  do  that  which  will  annul 
all  power  in  the  Spartan,  and  then  if  ye  come  to  Athens  ye  will 
find  her  as  bold  against  the  Doric  despot  as  against  the  Bar- 
barian foe." 

"  But  speak  more  plainly.  What  would  you  have  us 
do  ? "  asked  Uliades,  rubbing  his  chin  in  great  per- 
plexity. 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  have  already  said  enough.  Fare  ye  well,  fel- 
low-countrymen," and  leaning  lightly  on  the  shoulder  of  Cimon, 
the  Athenian  passed  on. 

Meanwhile  the  splendid  galley  of  Pausa.nias  slowly  put  forth 
into  the  farther  waters  of  the  bay.  The  oars  of  the  rowers 
broke  the  surface  into  countless  phosphoric  sparkles,  and  the 
sound  they  made,  as  they  dashed  amidst  the  gentle  waters, 
seemed  to  keep  time  with  the  song  and  the  instruments  on  the 
deck.  The  lonians  gazed  in  silence  as  the  stately  vessel,  now 
shooting  far  ahead  of  the  rest,  swept  into  the  centre  of  the  bay. 
And  the  moon,  just  rising,  shone  full  upon  the  glittering  prow, 
and  streaked  the  rippling  billows  over  which  it  had  bounded, 
with  a  light,  as  it  were,  of  glory. 

Antagoras  sighed. 

"  What  think  you  of  ?  "  asked  the  rough  Samian. 

"  Peace,"  replied  Antagoras.  "  In  this  hour,  when  the  fair 
face  of  Artemis  recalls  the  old  legends  of  Endymion,  is  it  not 
permitted  to  man  to  remember  that  before  the  iron  age  came 
the  golden,  before  war  reigned  love  ?  " 

"  Tush,"  said  Uliades.  "  Time  enough  to  think  of  love  when 
we  have  satisfied  vengeance.  Let  us  summon  our  friends,  and 
hold  council  on  the  Spartan's  insults." 

"Whither  goes  now  the  Spartan?"  murmured  Antagoras 
abstractedly,  as  he  suffered  his  companion  to  lead  him  away. 
Then  halting  abruptly,  he  struck  his  clenched  hand  or,  his 
breast. 


24  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN'. 

"O  Aphrodite  !"  he  cried;  "this  night — this  night  I  will 
seek  thy  temple.  Hear  my  vows — soothe  my  jealousy  !  " 

"Ah,"  grunted  Uliades,  "if,  as  men  say,  thou  lovest  a  fair 
Byzantine,  Aphrodite  will  have  sharp  work  to  cure  thee  of 
jealousy,  unless  she  first  makes  thee  blind." 

Antagoras  smiled  faintly,  and  the  two  lonians  moved  on 
slowly  and  in  silence.  In  a  few  minutes  more  the  quays  were 
deserted  and  nothing  but  the  blended  murmur,  spreading  wide 
and  indistinct  throughout  the  camp,  and  a  noisier  but  occa- 
sional burst  of  merriment  from  those  resorts  of  obscener  pleas- 
ure which  were  profusely  scattered  along  the  haven,  mingled 
with  the  whispers  of  "the  far-resounding  sea." 


CHAPTER    II. 

ON  a  couch  beneath  his  voluptuous  awning,  reclined  Pausa- 
nias.  The  curtains,  drawn  aside,  gave  to  view  the  moonlit 
ocean,  and  the  dim  shadows  of  the  shore,  with  the  dark  woods 
beyond,  relieved  by  the  distant  lights  of  the  city.  On  one  side 
of  the  Spartan  was  a  small  table,  that  supported  goblets  and 
vases  of  that  exquisite  wine  which  Maronea  proffered  to  the 
thirst  of  the  Byzantine,  and  those  cooling  and  delicious  fruits 
which  the  orchards  around  the  city  supplied  as  amply  as  the 
fabled  gardens  of  the  Hesperides,  were  heaped  on  the  other 
side.  Towards  the  foot  of  the  couch,  propped  upon  cushions 
piled  on  the  floor,  sat  Gongylus,  conversing  in  a  low,  earnest 
voice,  and  fixing  his  eyes  steadfastly  on  the  Spartan.  The 
habits  of  the  Eretrian's  life,  which  had  brought  him  in  constant 
contact  with  the  Persians,  had  infected  his  very  language  with 
the  luxuriant  extravagance  of  the  East.  And  the  thoughts  he 
uttered  made  his  language  but  too  musical  to  the  ears  of  the 
listening  Spartan. 

"And  fair  as  these  climes  may  seem  to  you,  and  rich  as  are 
the  gardens  and  granaries  of  Byzantium,  yet  to  me  who  have 
stood  on  the  terraces  of  Babylon  and  looked  upon  groves  cov- 
ering with  blossom  and  fruit  the  very  fortresses  and  walls  of 
that  queen  of  nations — to  me,  who  have  roved  amidst  the  vast 
delights  of  Susa,  through  palaces  whose  very  porticoes  might 
enclose  the  limits  of  a  Grecian  city — who  have  stood,  awed  and 
dazzled,  in  the  courts  of  that  wonder  of  the  world,  that  crown 
of  the  East,  the  marble  magnificence  of  Persepolis — to  me, 
Pausanias,  who  have  been  thus  admitted  into  the  very  heart 
of  Persian  glories,  this  city  of  Byzantium  appears  but  a  village 


PAUSANIAS,  THE  SPARTAN.  2$ 

of  artisans  and  fishermen.  The  very  foliage  of  its  forests,  pale 
and  sickly,  the  very  moonlight  upon  these  waters,  cold  and 
smileless,  ah,  if  thou  couldst  but  see  !  But  pardon  me,  I  weary 
thee  ? " 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  Spartan,  who,  raised  upon  his  elbow, 
listened  to  the  words  of  Gongylus  with  deep  attention.  "  Pro- 
ceed." 

"  Ah,  if  thou  couldst  but  see  the  fair  regions  which  the  great 
King  has  apportioned  to  thy  countryman  Demaratus.  And  if 
a  domain  that  would  satiate  the  ambition  of  the  most  craving 
of  your  earlier  tyrants  fall  to  Demaratus,  what  would  be  the 
splendid  satraphy  in  which  the  conqueror  of  Plataea  might 
plant  his  throne?" 

"  In  truth,  my  renown  and  my  power  are  greater  than  those 
ever  possessed  by  Demaratus,"  said  the  Spartan  musingly. 

"  Yet,"  pursued  Gongylus,  "  it  is  not  so  much  the  mere 
extent  of  the  territories  which  the  grateful  Xerxes  could  proffer 
to  the  brave  Pausanias — it  is  not  their  extent  so  much  that  might 
tempt  desire,  neither  is  it  their  stately  forests,  nor  the  fertile 
meadows,  nor  the  ocean-like  rivers,  which  the  gods  of  the  East 
have  given  to  the  race  of  Cyrus,  There,  free  from  the  strange 
constraints  which  our  austere  customs  and  solemn  deities  impose 
upon  the  Greeks,  the  beneficent  Ormuzd  scatters  ever-varying 
delights  upon  the  paths  of  men.  All  that  art  can  invent,  all 
that  the  marts  of  the  universe  can  afford  of  the  rare  and  volup- 
tuous, are  lavished  upon  abodes  the  splendor  of  which  even  our 
idle  dreams  of  Olympus  never  shadowed  forth.  There,  instead 
of  the  harsh  and  imperious  helpmate  to  whom  the  joyless  Spar- 
tan confines  his  reluctant  love,  all.  the  beauties  of  every  clime 
contend  for  the  smile  of  their  lord.  And  wherever  are  turned 
the  change-loving  eyes  of  Passion,  the  Aphrodite  of  our  poets, 
such  as  the  Cytherian  and  Cyprian  fable  her,  seems  to  recline 
on  the  lotus  leaf  or  to  rise  from  the  unruffled  ocean  of  delight. 
Instead  of  the  gloomy  brows  and  the  harsh  tones  of  rivals  envi- 
ous of  your  fame,  hosts  of  friends  aspiring  only  to  be  followers 
will  catch  gladness  from  your  smile  or  sorrow  from  your  frown. 
There,  no  jarring  contests  with  little  men,  who  deem  them- 
selves the  equals  of  the  great,  no  jealous  Ephor  is  found,  to 
load  the  commonest  acts  of  life  with  fetters  of  iron  custom. 
Talk  of  liberty  !  Liberty  in  Sparta  is  but  one  eternal  servi- 
tude ;  you  cannot  move,  or  eat,  or  sleep,  save  as  the  law  directs. 
Your  very  children  are  wrested  from  you  just  in  the  age  when 
their  voices  sound  most  sweet.  Ye  are  not  men  ;  ye  are  ma- 
chines. Call  you  this  liberty,  Pausanias?  I,  a  Greek,  have 


«6  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

known  both  Grecian  liberty  and  Persian  royalty.  Better  be 
chieftain  to  a  king  than  servant  to  a  mob  !  But  in  Eretria,  at 
least,  pleasure  was  not  denied.  In  Sparta  the  very  Graces 
preside  over  discipline  and  war  only." 

"Your  fire  falls  upon  flax,"  said  Pausanias,  rising,  and  with 
passionate  emotion.  "  And  if  you,  the  Greek  of  a  happier 
state — you  who  know  but  by  report  the  unnatural  bondage  to 
which  the  Spartans  are  subjected,  can  weary  of  the  very  name 
of  Greek,  what  must  be  the  feelings  of  one  who  from  the  cradle 
upward  has  been  starved  out  of  the  genial  desires  of  life  ?  Even 
in  earliest  youth,  while  yet  all  other  lands  and  customs  were 
unknown,  when  it  was  duly  poured  into  my  ears  that  to  be  born 
a  Spartan  constituted  the  glory  and  the  bliss  of  earth,  my 
soul  sickened  at  the  lesson,  and  my  reason  revolted  against  the 
lie.  Often  when  my  whole  body  was  lacerated  with  stripes, 
disdaining  to  groan,  I  yet  yearned  to  strike,  and  I  cursed  my 
savage  tutors  who  denied  pleasure  even  to  childhood  with  all 
the  madness  of  impotent  revenge.  My  mother  herself  (sweet 
name  elsewhere)  had  no  kindness  in  her  face.  She  was  the 
pride  of  the  matronage  of  Sparta,  because  of  all  our  women 
Alithea  was  the  most  unsexed.  When  I  went  forth  to  my  first 
crypteia,  to  watch,  amidst  the  wintry  dreariness  of  the  moun- 
tains, upon  the  movements  of  the  wretched  Helots,  to  spy  upon 
their  sufferings,  to  take  account  of  their  groans,  and  if  one  more 
manly  than  the  rest  dared  to  mingle  curses  with  his  groans,  to 
mark  him  for  slaughter  as  a  wolf  that  threatened  danger  to  the 
fold  ;  to  lurk,  an  assassin,  about  his  home  ;  to  dog  his  walks  ; 
to  fall  upon  him  unawares  ;  to  strike  him  from  behind  ;  to  filch 
away  his  life  ;  to  bury  him  in  the  ravines,  so  that  murder 
might  leave  no  trace ;  when  upon  this  initiating  campaign, 
the  virgin  trials  of  our  youth.  I  first  set  forth,  my  mother 
drew  near,  and  girding  me  herself  with  my  grandsire's 
sword:  'Go  forth,'  she  said,  'as  the  young  hound  to  the 
chase,  to  wind,  to  double,  to  leap  on  the  prey,  and  to  taste 
of  blood.  See,  the  sword  is  bright ;  show  me  the  stains  at 
thy  return.'  " 

"  Is  it  then  true,  as  the  Greeks  generally  declare,"  interrupted 
Gongylus,  "  that  in  these  campaigns,  or  crypteias,  the  sole  aim 
and  object  is  the  massacre  of  Helots  ?" 

"  Not  so,"  replied  Pausanias;  "savage  though  the  custom,  it 
smells  not  so  foully  of  the  shambles.  The  avowed  object  is 
to  harden  the  nerves  of  our  youth.  Barefooted,  unattended, 
through  cold  and  storm,  performing  ourselves  the  most  menial 
offices  necessary  to  life,  we  wander  for  a  certain  season  daily 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  2J 

and  nightly  through  the  rugged  territories  of  Laconia.*  We 
go  as  boys — we  come  back  as  men.f  The  avowed  object,  I 
say,  is  inurement  to  hardship,  but  with  this  is  connected  the 
secret  end  of  keeping  watch  on  these  half-tamed  and  bull-like 
herds  of  men  whom  we  call  the  Helots.  If  any  be  dangerous, 
we  mark  him  for  the  knife.  One  of  them  had  thrice  been  a 
ringleader  in  revolt.  He  was  wary  as  well  as  fierce.  He  had 
escaped  in  three  succeeding  crypteias.  To  me,  as  one  of  the 
Heraclidae,  was  assigned  the  honor  of  tracking  and  destroying 
him.  For  three  days  and  three  nights  I  dogged  his  footsteps 
(for  he  had  caught  the  scent  of  the  pursuers  and  fled), 
through  forest  and  defile,  through  valley  and  crag,  stealthily 
and  relentlessly.  I  followed  him  close.  At  last,  one  even- 
ing, having  lost  sight  of  all  my  comrades,  I  came  suddenly 
upon  him  as  I  emerged  from  a  wood.  It  was  a  broad  patch  of 
waste  land,  through  which  rushed  a  stream  swollen  by  the  rains, 
and  plunging  with  a  sullen  roar  down  a  deep  and  gloomy  prec- 
ipice, that  to  the  right  and  left  bounded  the  waste,  the  stream 
in  front,  the  wood  in  the  rear.  He  was  reclining  by  the  stream, 
at  which,  with  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  he  quenched  his  thirst. 
I  paused  to  gaze  upon  him,  and  as  I  did  so  he  turned  and  saw  me. 
He  rose,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  mine,  and  we  examined  each 
other  in  silence.  The  Helots  are  rarely  of  tall  stature,  but  this 
was  a  giant.  His  dress,  that  of  his  tribe,  of  rude  sheepskins, 
and  his  cap  made  from  the  hide  of  a  dog  increased  the  savage 
rudeness  of  his  appearance.  I  rejoiced  that  he  saw  me,  and 
that,  as  we  were  alone,  I  might  fight  him  fairly.  It  would  have 
been  terrible  to  slay  the  wretch  if  I  had  caught  him  in  his 
sleep." 

"  Proceed,"  said  Gongylus,  with  interest,  for  so  little  was 
known  of  Sparta  by  the  rest  of  the  Greeks,  especially  outside 
the  Peloponnesus,  that  these  details  gratified  his  natural  spirit 
of  gossiping  inquisitiveness. 

"  '  Stand  ! '  said  I,  and  he  moved  not.  I  approached  him 
slowly.  '  Thou  art  a  Spartan,'  said  he,  in  a  deep  and  harsh 
voice,  '  and  thou  comest  for  my  blood.  Go,  boy,  go,  thou  art 
not  mellowed  to  thy  prime,  and  thy  comrades  are  far  away. 
The  shears  of  the  Fatal  deities  hover  over  the  thread  not  of  my 
life  but  of  thine.'  I  was  struck,  Gongylus,  by  this  address,  for 
it  was  neither  desperate  nor  dastardly,  as  I  had  anticipated  ; 
nevertheless,  it  beseemed  not  a  Spartan  to  fly  from  a  Helot, 
and  I  drew  the  sword  which  my  mother  had  girded  on.  The 

*  Plat.,  Leg.  i.  p.  633.     See  also  Miiller's  Dorians,  vol.  ii.  p.  41. 

t  Pueros  puberes — neque  prius  in  urbera  redire  quam  viri  facti  essent. — Justin,  iii.  3. 


28  PAUSANtAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

Helot  watched  my  movements,  and  seized  a  rude  and  knotted 
club  that  lay  on  the  ground  beside  him. 

"  '  Wretch,'  said  I,  '  darest  thou  attack  face  to  face  a  de- 
scendant of  the  Heraclidas  ?  In  me  behold  Pausanias,  the  son 
of  Cleombrotus.' 

"  '  Be  it  so  ;  in  the  city  one  is  the  god-born,  the  other  the 
man-enslaved.  On  the  mountains  we  are  equals.' 

"'  Knowest  thou  not,'  said  1,  '  that  if  the  Gods  condemned 
me  to  die  by  thy  hand,  not  only  thou,  but  thy  whole  house,  thy 
wife  and  thy  children,  would  be  sacrificed  to  my  ghost  ? ' 

"'  The  earth  can  hide  the  Spartan's  bones  as  secretly  as  the 
Helot's,'  answered  my  strange  foe.  '  Begone,  young  and  un- 
fleshed in  slaughter  as  you  are  ;  why  make  war  upon  me  ? 
My  deatli  can  give  you  neither  gold  nor  glory.  I  have  never 
harmed  thee  or  thine.  How  much  of  the  air  and  sun  does 
this  form  take  from  the  descendant  of  the  Heraclidae  ?  ' 

"  'Thrice  hast  thou  raised  revolt  among  the  Helots;  thrice 
at  thy  voice  have  they  risen  in  bloody,  though  fruitless,  strife 
against  their  masters.' 

"  '  Not  at  my  voice,  but  at  that  of  the  two  deities  who  are 
the  war-gods  of  slaves — Persecution  and  Despair.'  * 

"Impatient  of  this  parley,  I  tarried  no  longer.  I  sprang 
upon  the  Helot.  He  evaded  my  sword,  and  I  soon  found  that 
all  my  agility  and  skill  were  requisite  to  save  me  from  the 
massive  weapon,  one  blow  of  which  would  have  sufficed  to 
crush  me.  But  the  Helot  seemed  to  stand  on  the  defensive, 
and  continued  to  back  towards  the  wood  from  which  I  had 
emerged.  Fearful  lest  he  would  escape  me,  I  pressed  hard  on 
his  footsteps.  My  blood  grew  warm  ;  my  fury  got  the  better 
ol  my  prudence.  My  foot  stumbled  ;  I  recovered  in  an  instant 
and,  looking  up,  beheld  the  terrible  club  suspended  over  my 
head  ;  it  might  have  fallen,  but  the  stroke  of  death  was  with- 
held. I  misinterpreted  the  merciful  delay  ;  the  lifted  arm  left 
the  body  of  my  enemy  exposed.  I  struck  him  on  the  side  ; 
the  thick  hide  blunted  the  stroke,  but  it  drew  blood.  Afraid 
to  draw  back  within  the  reach  of  his  weapon,  I  threw  myself 
on  him,  and  grappled  to  his  throat.  We  rolled  on  the  earth 
together ;  it  was  but  a  moment's  struggle.  Strong  as  I  was 
even  in  boyhood,  the  Helot  would  have  been  a  match  for 
Alcides.  A  shade  passed  over  my  eyes  ;  my  breath  heaved 
short.  The  slave  was  kneeling  on  my  breast,  and,  dropping 
the  club,  he  drew  a  short  knife  from  his  girdle.  I  gazed  upon 

*  When  Themistocles  sought  to  extort  tribute  from  the  Andrians,  he  said:  "  I  bring  with 
me  two  powerful  gods — Persuasion  and  Force."  "  And  on  our  side,"  was  the  answer, 
"  are  two  deities  not  less  powerful — Poverty  and  Despair  !  " 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  2Q 

him  grim  and  mute.     I  was  conquered,  and   I  cared  not  for 
the  rest. 

"The  blood  from  his  side,  as  he  bent  over  me,  trickled  down 
upon  my  face. 

"  '  And  this  blood,'  said  the   Helot,  '  you  shed  in  the  very 
moment  when  I  spared  your  life  ;   such  is  the  honor  of  a  Spar 
tan.     Do  you  not  deserve  to  die  ?' 

'  Yes,  for  I  am  subdued,  and  by  a  slave.  Strike  !  ' 
'  There,'  said  the  Helot,  in  a  melancholy  and  altered  tone, 
'there  speaks  the  soul  of  the  Dorian,  'the  fatal  spirit  to  which 
the  Gods  have  rendered  up  our  wretched  race.  We  are 
doomed — doomed — and  one  victim  will  not  expiate  our  curse. 
Rise,  return  to  Sparta,  and  forget  that  thou  art  innocent  of 
murder.' 

"  He  lifted  his  knee  from  my  breast,  and  I  rose,  ashamed  and 
humbled. 

"  At  that  instant  I  heard  the  crashing  of  the  leaves  in  the 
wood,  for  the  air  was  exceedingly  still.  I  knew  that  my  com- 
panions were  at  hand.  '  Fly,'  1  cried  ;  '  fly.  If  they  come  I 
cannot  save  thee,  royal  though  I  be.  Fly.' 

'  '  And  wouldest  thou  save  me  ! '  said  the  Helot  in  surprise. 

' '  Ay,  with  my  own  life.  Canst  thou  doubt  it  ?  Lose  not  a 
moment.  Fly.  Yet  stay  ';  and  I  tore  off  a  part  of  the  woollen 
vest  that  I  wore.  '  Place  this  at  thy  side  ;  staunch  the  blood, 
that  it  may  not  track  thee.  Now  begone  ! ' 

"The  Helot  looked  hard  at  me,  and  I  thought  there  were 
tears  in  his  rude  eyes  ;  then  catching  up  the  club  with  as  much 
ease  as  I  this  staff,  he  sped  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  despite 
his  wound,  towards  the  precipice  on  the  right,  and  disappeared 
amidst  the  thick  brambles  that  clothed  the  gorge.  In  a  few 
moments  three  of  my  companions  approached.  They  found 
me  exhausted,  and  panting  rather  with  excitement  than  fatigue. 
Their  quick  eyes  detected  the  blood  upon  the  ground.  I  gave 
them  no  time  to  pause  and  examine.  '  He  has  escaped  me — he 
has  fled,'  I  cried  ;  '  follow,'  and  I  led  them  to  the  opposite 
part  of  the  precipice  from  that  which  the  Helot  had  taken. 
Heading  the  search,  I  pretended  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
goatskin  ever  and  anon  through  the  trees,  and  I  stayed  not  the 
pursuit  till  night  grew  dark,  and  I  judged  the  victim  was  far 
away. 

"  And  he  escaped  ? " 

"  He  did.  The  crypteia  ended.  Three  other  Helots  were 
slain,  but  not  by  me.  We  returned  to  Sparta,  and  my  mother 
was  comforted  for  my  misfortune  in  not  having  slain  my  foe 


30  PAUSANTAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

by  seeing  the  stains  on  my  grandsire's  sword.  I  will  tell  thee 
a  secret,  Gongylus  "  (and  here  Pausanias  lowered  his  voice, 
and  looked  anxiously  toward  him) — "  since  that  day  I  have  not 
hated  the  Helot  race.  Nay,  it  may  be  that  I  have  loved  them 
better  than  the  Dorian." 

"I  do  not  wonder  at  it  ;  but  has  not  your  wounded  giant 
yet  met  with  his  death  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  related  what  had  passed  between  us  to  any 
one  save  my  father.  He  was  gentle  for  a  Spartan,  and  he 
rested  not  till  Gylippus— so  was  the  Helot  named — obtained 
exemption  from  the  black-list.  He  dared  not,  however,  attrib- 
ute his  intercession  to  the  true  cause.  It  happened,  fortu- 
nately, that  Gylippus  was  related  to  my  own  foster-brother, 
Alcman,  brother  to  my  nurse  ;  and  Alcman  is  celebrated  in 
Sparta,  not  only  for  courage  in  war,  but  for  arts  in  peace.  He 
is  a  poet,  and  his  strains  please  the  Dorian  ear,  for  they  are 
stern  and  simple,  and  they  breathe  of  war.  Alcman's  merits 
won  forgiveness  for  the  offences  of  Gylippus.  May  the  Gods 
be  kind  to  his  race  !  " 

"  Your  Alcman  seems  one  of  no  common  intelligence,  and 
your  gentleness  to  him  does  not  astonish  me,  though  it  seems 
often  to  raise  a  frown  on  the  brows  of  your  Spartans." 

"  We  have  lain  on  the  same  bosom,"  said  Pausanias  touchingly, 
"  and  his  mother  was  kinder  to  me  than  my  own.  You  must 
know  that  to  those  Helots  who  have  been  our  foster-brothers, 
and  whom  we  distinguish  by  the  name  of  Mothons,  our  stern 
law  relaxes.  They  have  no  rights  of  citizenship,  it  is  true,  but 
they  cease  to  be  slaves  ;  *  nay,  sometimes  they  attain  not  only 
to  entire  emancipation,  but  to  distinction.  Alcman  has  bound 
his  fate  to  mine.  But  to  return,  Gongylus.  I  tell  thee  that  it  is 
not  thy  descriptions  of  pomp  and  dominion  that  allure  me, 
though  I  am  not  above  the  love  of  power  ;  neither  is  it  thy 
glowing  promises  ;  though  blood  too  wild  for  a  Dorian  runs 
riot  in  my  veins  ;  but  it  is  my  deep  loathing,  my  inexpressible 
disgust  for  Sparta  and  her  laws,  my  horror  at  the  thought  of 
wearing  away  life  in  those  sullen  customs,  amid  that  joyless 
round  of  tyrannic  duties,  in  my  rapture  at  the  hope  of 
escape,  of  life  in  a  land  which  the  eye  of  the  Ephor  never 
pierces  ;  this  it  is,  and  this  alone,  O  Persian,  that  makes  me 
(the  words  must  out)  a  traitor  to  my  country — one  who 
dreams  of  becoming  a  dependent  on  her  foe." 

"  Nay,"  said  Gongylus  eagerly  ;  for  here  Pausanias  moved 

*  The  appellation  of  Mothons  was  not  confined  to  the  Helots  who  claimed  the  connection 
of  foster-brothers,  but  was  given  also  to  househoid  slaves. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  3! 

uneasily,  and  the  color  mounted  to  his  brow.  "  Nay,  speak 
not  of  dependence.  Consider  the  proposals  that  you  can  alone 
condescend  to  offer  to  the  great  King.  Can  the  conqueror  of 
Platsea,  with  millions  for  his  subjects,  hold  himself  dependent, 
even  on  the  sovereign  of  the  East?  How,  hereafter,  will  the 
memories  of  our  sterile  Greece  and  your  rocky  Sparta  fade 
from  your  state  of  mind  ;  or  be  remembered  only  as  a  thral- 
dom and  bondage,  which  your  riper  manhood  has  outgrown  !  " 

"  I  will  try  to  think  so  at  least,"  said  Pausanias  gloomily. 
"  And,  come  what  may,  lam  not  one  to  recede.  I  have  thrown 
my  shield  into  a  fearful  peril,  but  I  will  win  it  back  or  perish. 
Enough  of  this,  Gongylus.  Night  advances.  I  will  attend  the 
appointment  you  have  made.  Take  the  boat,  and  within  an 
hour  I  will  meet  you  with  the  prisoners  at  the  spot  agreed 
on,  near  the  Temple  of  Aphrodite.  All  things  are  prepared?  " 

"  All,"  said  Gongylus,  rising,  with  a  gleam  of  malignant  joy 
on  his  dark  face.  "I  leave  thee,  kingly  slave  of  the  rocky 
Sparta,  to  prepare  the  way  for  thee,  as  Satrap  of  half  the  East.' 

So  saying,  he  quitted  the  awning,  and  motioned  three  Egyp- 
tian sailors  who  lay  on  the  deck  without.  A  boat  was  low- 
ered, and  the  sound  of  its  oars  woke  Pausanias  from  the  revery 
into  which  the  parting  words  of  the  Eretrian  had  plunged  hie 
mind. 

CHAPTER  III. 

WITH  a  slow  and  thoughtful  step,  Pausanias  passed  on  to 
the  outer  deck.  The  moon  was  up,  and  the  vessel  scarcely 
seemed  to  stir,  so  gently  did  it  glide  along  the  sparkling  waters. 
They  were  still  within  the  bay,  and  the  shores  rose,  white  and 
distinct,  to  his  view.  A  group  of  Spartans,  reclining  by  the 
side  of  the  ship,  were  gazing  listlessly  on  the  waters.  The 
Regent  paused  beside  them. 

"  Ye  weary  of  the  ocean,  methinks,"  said  he.  "We  Dorians 
have  not  the  merchant  tastes  of  the  lonians."  * 

"  Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  said  one  of  the  group — a  Spartan 
whose  rank  and  services  entitled  him  to  more  than  ordinary 
familiarity  with  the  chief — "  it  is  not  the  ocean  itself  that  we 
should  dread,  it  is  the  contagion  of  those  who,  living  on  the 
element,  seem  to  share  in  its  ebb  and  flow.  The  lonians  are 
never  three  hours  in  the  same  mind." 

"  For  that  reason,"  said  Pausanias,  fixing  his  eyes  steadfastly 

*  No  Spartan  served  as  a  sailor,  or  indeed  condescended  to  any  trade  or  calling,  but  that 
of  war. 


3*  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

on  the  Spartan  ;  "  For  that  reason  I  have  judged  it  advisable 
to  adopt  a  rough  manner  with  these  innovators,  to  draw  with  a 
broad  chalk  the  line  between  them  and  the  Spartans,  and  to 
teach  those  who  never  knew  discipline  the  stern  duties  of  obe- 
dience. Think  you  I  have  done  wisely  ? " 

The  Spartan,  who  had  risen  when  Pausanias  addressed  him, 
drew  his  chief  a  little  aside  from  the  rest. 

"  Pausanias,"  said  he,  "  the  hard  Naxian  stone  best  tames 
and  tempers  the  fine  steel ;  *  but  the  steel  may  break  if  the 
workman  be  not  skilful.  These  Athenians  are  grown  insolent 
since  Marathon,  and  their  soft  kindred  of  Asia  have  relighted 
the  fires  they  took  of  old  from  the  Cecropian  Prytaneum. 
Their  sail  is  more  numerous  than  ours  ;  on  the  sea  they  find 
the  courage  they  lose  on  land.  Better  be  gentle  with  those 
wayward  allies,  for  the  Spartan  greyhound  shows  not  his  teeth 
but  to  bite." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  will  consider  these  things,  and 
appease  the  mutineers.  But  it  goes  hard  with  my  pride, 
Thrasyllus,  to  make  equals  of  this  soft-tongued  race.  Why, 
these  lonians,  do  they  not  enjoy  themselves  in  perpetual  holi- 
days ?  Spend  days  at  the  banquet  ?  Ransack  earth  and  sea 
for  dainties  and  for  perfumes?  And  shall  they  be  the  equals 
of  us  men,  who,  from  the  age  of  seven  to  that  of  sixty,  are 
wisely  taught  to  make  life  so  barren  and  toilsome,  that  we  may 
well  have  no  fear  of  death?  I  hate  these  sleek  and  merry  feast- 
givers  ;  they  are  a  perpetual  insult  to  our  solemn  existence." 

There  was  a  strange  mixture  of  irony  and  passion  in  the 
Spartan's  voice  as  he  thus  spoke,  and  Thrasyllus  looked  at  him 
in  grave  surprise. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  envy  in  the  woman-like  debaucheries 
of  the  Ionian,"  said  he,  after  a  pause. 

"  Envy  !  no  ;  we  only  hate  them,  Thrasyllus.  Yon  Eretrian 
tells  me  rare  things  of  the  East.  Time  may  come  when  we 
shall  sup  on  the  black  broth  in  Susa." 

"  The  Gods  forbid  !  Sparta  never  invades.  Life  with  us  is 
too  precious,  for  we  are  few.  Pausanias,  I  would  we  were  well 
quit  of  Byzantium.  I  do  not  suspect  you,  not  I  ;  but  there 
are  those  who  look  with  vexed  eyes  on  those  garments,  and  I, 
who  love  you,  fear  the  sharp  jealousies  of  the  Ephors,  to  whose 
ears  the  birds  carry  all  tidings." 

"  My  poor  Thrasyllus,"  said  Pausanias,  laughing  scornfully, 
"  think  you  that  I  wear  these  robes,  or  mimic  the  Median 
manners,  for  love  of  the  Mede  ?  No,  no  !  But  there  are  arts 

*  Find.  Isth.,  v.  (vi.)  73. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  33 

which  save  countries  as  well  as  those  of  war.  This  Gongylus 
is  in  the  confidence  of  Xerxes.  I  desire  to  establish  a  peace 
for  Greece  upon  everlasting  foundations.  Reflect  ;  Persia 
hath  millions  yet  left.  Another  invasion  may  find  a  different 
fortune  ;  and  even  at  the  best,  Sparta  gains  nothing  by  these 
wars.  Athens  triumphs,  not  Lacedsemon.  I  would,  I  say, 
establish  a  peace  with  Persia.  I  would  that  Sparta,  not  Athens, 
should  have  that  honor.  Hence  these  flatteries  to  the  Persian — 
trivial  to  us  who  render  them,  sweet  and  powerful  to  those  who 
receive.  Remember  these  words  hereafter,  if  the  Ephors  make 
question  of  my  discretion.  And  now,  Thrasyllus,  return  to 
our  friends,  and  satisfy  them  as  to  the  conduct  of  Pausanias." 

Quitting  Thrasyllus,  the  Regent  now  joined  a  young  Spartan 
who  stood  alone  by  the  prow  in  a  musing  attitude. 

"  Lysander,  my  friend,  my  only  friend,  my  best-loved  Lysan- 
der,"  said  Pausanias,  placing  his  hand  on  the  Spartan's  shoul- 
der. "  And  why  so  sad  ?" 

"  How  many  leagues  are  we  from  Sparta  ?"  answered  Lysan- 
der mournfully. 

"  And  canst  thou  sigh  for  the  black  broth,  my  friend  ?  Come, 
how  often  hast  thou  said, '  Where  Pausanias  is,  there  is  Sparta ' !  " 

"  Forgive  me,  I  am  ungrateful,"  said  Lysander  with  warmth. 
"  My  benefactor,  my  guardian,  my  hero,  forgive  me  if  I  have 
added  to  your  own  countless  causes  of  anxiety.  Wherever 
you  are  there  is  life,  and  there  glory.  When  I  was  just  born, 
sickly  and  feeble,  I  was  exposed  on  Taygetus.  You,  then  a 
boy,  heard  my  faint  cry,  and  took  on  me  that  compassion  which 
my  parents  had  forsworn.  You  bore  me  to  your  father's  roof; 
you  interceded  for  my  life.  You  prevailed  even  on  your  stern 
mother.  I  was  saved  ;  and  the  Gods  smiled  upon  the  infant 
whom  the  son  of  the  humane  Hercules  protected.  I  grew  up 
strong  and  hardy,  and  belied  the  signs  of  my  birth.  My  parents 
then  owned  me  ;  but  still  you  were  my  fosterer,  my  saviour,  my 
more  than  father.  As  I  grew  up,  placed  under  your  care,  I 
imbibed  my  first  lessons  of  war.  By  your  side  I  fought,  and 
from  your  example  I  won  glory.  Yes,  Pausanias,  even  here, 
amidst  luxuries  which  revolt  me  more  than  the  Parthian  bow 
and  the  Persian  sword,  even  amidst  the  faces  of  the  stranger,  I 
still  feel  thy  presence  my  home,  thyself  my  Sparta." 

The  proud  Pausanias  was  touched,  and  his  voice  trembled 
as  he  replied  :  "  Brother  in  arms  and  in  love,  whatever  service 
fate  may  have  allowed  me  to  render  unto  thee,  thy  high  nature 
and  thy  cheering  affection  have  more  than  paid  me  back. 
Often  in  our  lonely  rambles  amidst  the  dark  oaks  of  the  sacred 


34  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

Scotitas,*  or  by  the  wayward  waters  of  Tiasa,f  when  I  have 
poured  into  thy  faithful  breast  my  impatient  loathing,  my  ineffa- 
ble distaste  for  the  iron  life,  the  countless  and  wearisome 
tyrannies  of  custom  which  surround  the  Spartans,  often  have  I 
found  a  consoling  refuge  in  thy  divine  contentment,  thy  cheer- 
ful wisdom.  Thou  lovest  Sparta  ;  why  is  she  not  worthier  of 
thy  love  ?  Allowed  only  to  be  half  men,  in  war  we  are  demi- 
gods, in  peace,  slaves.  Thou  wouldst  interrupt  me.  Be  silent. 
I  am  in  a  wilful  mood  ;  thou  canst  not  comprehend  me,  and  I 
often  marvel  at  thee.  Still  we  are  friends,  such  friends  as  the 
Dorian  discipline,  which  makes  friendship  necessary  in  order 
to  endure  life,  alone  can  form.  Come,  take  up  thy  staff  and 
mantle.  Thou  shalt  be  my  companion  ashore.  I  seek  one 
whom  alone  in  the  world  I  love  better  than  thee.  To-morrow 
to  stern  duties  once  more.  Alcman  shall  row  us  across  the 
bay,  and  as  we  glide  along,  if  thou  wilt  praise  Sparta,  I  will 
listen  to  thee  as  the  lonians  listen  to  their  tale-tellers.  Ho ! 
Alcman,  stop  the  rowers,  and  lower  the  boat." 

The  orders  were  obeyed,  and  a  second  boat  soon  darted 
towards  the  same  part  of  the  bay  as  that  to  which  the  one  that 
bore  Gongylus  had  directed  its  course.  Thrasyllus  and  his 
companions  watched  the  boat  that  bore  Pausanias  and  his  two 
comrades,  as  it  bounded,  arrow-like,  over  the  glassy  sea. 

'  Whither  goes  Pausanias  ?  "  asked  one  of  the  Spartans. 

'  Back  to  Byzantium  on  business,"  replied  Thrasyllus. 

'  And  we  ?  " 

'  Are  to  cruise  in  the  bay  till  his  return." 

'  Pausanias  is  changed." 

'  Sparta  will  restore  him  to  what  he  was.  Nothing  thrives 
out  of  Sparta.  Even  man  spoils." 

"True,  sleep  is  the  sole  constant  friend,  the  same  in  all 
climates." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

ON  the  shore  to  the  right  of  the  port  of  Byzantium  were  at 
that  time  thickly  scattered  the  villas  or  suburban  retreats  of 
the  wealthier  and  more  luxurious  citizens.  Byzantium  was 
originally  colonized  by  the  Megarians,  a  Dorian  race  kindred 
with  that  of  Sparta  ;  and  the  old  features  of  the  pure  and  an- 
tique Hellas  were  still  preserved  in  the  dialect,!  as  well  as  in 

*  Paus.  Lac.,  x.  t  IB.,  c.  xviii. 

J  "  The  Byzantine  dialect  was   in  the  time  of  Philip,  as  we  know  from   the  decree  in 
pnmosthenes,  rich  in  Dorisms." — Miiller  on  the  Doric  Dialect. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  35 

the  forms  of  the  descendants  of  the  colonists ;  in  their  favorite 
deities,  and  rites,  and  traditions  ;  even  in  the  names  of  places, 
transferred  from  the  sterile  Megara  to  that  fertile  coast ;  in  the 
rigid  and  helotlike  slavery  to  which  the  native  Bithynians 
were  subjected,  and  in  the  attachment  of  their  masters  to  the 
oligarchic  principles  of  government.  Nor  was  it  till  long  after 
the  present  date,  that  democracy  in  its  most  corrupt  and  licen- 
tious form  was  introduced  amongst  them.  But  like  all  the 
Dorian  colonies,  when  once  they  departed  from  the  severe  and 
masculine  mode  of  life  inherited  from  their  ancestors,  the  re- 
action was  rapid,  the  degeneracy  complete.  Even  then  the 
Byzantines,  intermingled  with  the  foreign  merchants  and 
traders  that  thronged  their  haven,  and  womanized  by  the  soft 
contagion  of  the  East,  were  voluptuous,  timid,  and  prone  to 
every  excess  save  that  of  valor.  The  higher  class  were  exceed- 
ingly wealthy,  and  gave  to  their  vices  or  their  pleasures  a 
splendor  and  refinement  of  which  the  elder  states  of  Greece 
were  as  yet  unconscious.  At  a  later  period,  indeed,  we  are 
informed  that  the  Byzantine  citizens  had  their  habitual  resi- 
dence in  the  public  hostels,  and  let  their  houses — not  even 
taking  the  trouble  to  remove  their  wives — to  the  strangers  who 
crowded  their  gay  capital.  And  when  their  general  found  it 
necessary  to  demand  their  aid  on  the  ramparts,  he  could  only 
secure  their  attendance  by  ordering  the  taverns  and  cookshops 
to  be  removed  to  the  place  of  duty.  Not  yet  so  far  sunk  in 
sloth  and  debauch,  the  Byzantines  were  nevertheless  hosts 
eminently  dangerous  to  the  austerer  manners  of  their  Greek 
visitors.  The  people,  the  women,  the  delicious  wine,  the  balm 
of  the  subduing  climate,  served  to  tempt  the  senses  and  relax 
the  mind.  Like  all  the  Dorians,  when  freed  from  primitive 
restraint,  the  higher  class,  that  is,  the  descendants  of  the  colo- 
nists, were  in  themselves  an  agreeable,  jovial  race.  They  had 
that  strong  bias  to  humor,  to  jest,  to  satire,  which  in  their  an- 
cestral Megara  gave  birth  to  the  Grecian  comedy,  and  which 
lurked  even  beneath  the  pithy  aphorisms  and  rude  merry- 
makings of  the  severe  Spartan. 

Such  were  the  people  with  whom  of  late  Pausanias  had 
familiarly  mixed,  and  with  whose  manners  he  contrasted,  far 
too  favorably  for  his  honor  and  his  peace,  the  habits  of  his 
countrymen. 

It  was  in  one  of  the  villas  we  have  described,  the  favorite 
abode  of  the  rich  Diagoras,  and  in  an  apartment  connected 
with  those  more  private  recesses  of  the  house  appropriated  to 
the  females,  that  two  persons  were  seated  by  a  "window  which 


36  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

commanded  a  wide  view  of  the  glittering  sea  below.  One  of 
these  was  an  old  man  in  a  long  robe  that  reached  to  his  feet, 
with  a  bald  head  and  a  beard  in  v/hich  some  dark  hairs  yet 
withstood  the  encroachments  of  the  gray.  In  his  well-cut 
features  and  large  eyes  were  remains  of  the  beauty  that  char- 
acterized his  race ;  but  the  mouth  was  full  and  wide,  the  fore- 
head low  though  broad,  the  cheeks  swollen,  the  chin  double, 
and  the  whole  form  corpulent  and  unwieldy.  Still  there  was  a 
jolly,  sleek  good  humor  about  the  aspect  of  the  man  that 
prepossessed  you  in  his  favor.  This  personage,  who  was  no 
less  than  Diagoras  himself,  was  reclining  lazily  upon  a  kind  of 
narrow  sofa  cunningly  inlaid  with  ivory,  and  studying  new 
combinations  in  that  scientific  game  which  Palamedes  is  said 
to  have  invented  at  the  siege  of  Troy. 

His  companion  was  of  a  very  different  appearance.  She  was 
a  girl  who  to  the  eye  of  a  northern  stranger  might  have  seemed 
about  eighteen,  though  she  was  probably  much  younger,  of  a 
countenance  so  remarkable  for  intelligence  that  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  her  mind  had  outgrown  her  years.  Beautiful  she  cer- 
tainly was,  yet  scarcely  of  that  beauty  from  which  the  Greek 
sculptor  would  have  drawn  his  models.  The  features  were  not 
strictly  regular,  and  yet  so  harmoniously  did  each  blend  with 
each,  that  to  have  amended  one  would  have  spoilt  the  whole. 
There  was  in  the  fulness  and  depth  of  the  large  but  genial  eye, 
with  its  sweeping  fringe,  and  straight,  slightly  chiselled  brow, 
more  of  Asia  than  of  Greece.  The  lips,  of  the  freshest  red, 
were  somewhat  full  and  pouting,  and  dimples  without  number 
lay  scattered  round  them — lurking-places  for  the  loves.  Her 
complexion  was  clear  though  dark,  and  the  purest  and  most 
virgin  bloom  mantled,  now  paler  now  richer,  through  the  soft 
surface.  At  the  time  we  speak  of  she  was  leaning  against  the 
open  door  with  her  arms  crossed  on  her  bosom,  and  her  face 
turned  towards  the  Byzantine.  Her  robe,  of  a  deep  yellow,  so 
trying  to  the  fair  women  of  the  North,  became  well  the  glow- 
ing colors  of  her  beauty — the  damask  cheek,  the  purple  hair. 
Like  those  of  the  lonians,  the  sleeves  of  the  robe,  long  and 
loose,  descended  to  her  hands,  which  were  marvellously  small 
and  delicate.  Long  earrings,  which  terminated  in  a  kind  of 
berry,  studded  with  precious  stones,  then  common  only  with 
the  women  of  the  East ;  a  broad  collar,  or  necklace,  of  the 
smaragdus  or  emerald  ;  and  large  clasps,  medallionlike,  where 
the  swan-like  throat  joined  the  graceful  shoulder,  gave  to  her 
dress  an  appearance  of  opulence  and  splendor  that  beto- 
kened how  much  the  ladies  of  Byzantium  had  borrowed  from 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  37 

the  fashions  of  the  Oriental  world.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
lightness  of  her  form,  rounded,  it  is  true,  but  slight  and  girlish, 
and  the  high  instep  with  the  slender  foot,  so  well  set  off  by 
the  embroidered  sandal,  would  have  suited  such  dances  as 
those  in  which  the  huntress  nymphs  of  Delos  moved  around 
Diana.  The  natural  expression  of  her  face,  if  countenance  so 
mobile  and  changeful  had  one  expression  more  predominant 
than  another,  appeared  to  be  irresistibly  arch  and  joyous,  as  of 
one  full  of  youth  and  conscious  of  her  beauty ;  yet,  if  a  cloud 
came  over  the  face,  nothing  could  equal  the  thoughtful  and 
deep  sadness  of  the  dark,  abstracted  eyes,  as  if  some  touch  of 
higher  and  more  animated  emotion — such  as  belongs  to  pride, 
or  courage,  or  intellect — vibrated  on  the  heart.  The  color 
rose,  the  form  dilated,  the  lip  quivered,  the  eye  flashed  light, 
and  the  mirthful  expression  heightened  almost  into  the  sub- 
lime. Yet,  lovely  as  Cleonice  was  deemed  at  Byzantium,  love- 
lier still  as  she  would  have  appeared  in  modern  eyes,  she  failed 
in  what  the  Greeks  generally,  but  especially  the  Spartans, 
deemed  an  essential  of  beauty — in  height  of  stature.  Accus- 
tomed to  look  upon  the  virgin  but  as  the  future  mother  of  a 
race  of  warriors,  the  Spartans  saw  beauty  only  in  those  pro- 
portions which  promised  a  robust  and  stately  progeny,  and  the 
reader  may  remember  the  well-known  story  of  the  opprobrious 
reproaches,  even,  it  is  said,  accompanied  with  stripes,  which 
theEphors  addressed  to  a  Spartan  king  for  presuming  to  make 
choice  of  a  wife  below  the  ordinary  stature.  Cleonice  was 
small  and  delicate,  rather  like  the  Peri  of  the  Persian  than  the 
sturdy  grace  of  the  Dorian.  But  her  beauty  was  her  least 
charm.  She  had  all  that  feminine  fascination  of  manner,  way- 
ward, varying,  inexpressible,  yet  irresistible,  which  seizes  hold 
of  the  imagination  as  well  as  the  senses,  and  which  has  so  often 
made  willing  slaves  of  the  proud  rulers  of  the  world.  In  fact 
Cleonice,  the  daughter  of  Diagoras,  had  enjoyed  those  advan- 
tages of  womanly  education  wholly  unknown  at  that  time  to 
the  freeborn  ladies  of  Greece  proper,  but  which  gave  to  the 
women  of  some  of  the  isles  and  Ionian  cities  their  celebrity  in 
ancient  story.  Her  mother  was  of  Miletus,  famed  for  the 
intellectual  cultivation  of  the  sex,  no  less  than  for  their  beauty — 
of  Miletus,  the  birthplace  of  Aspasia — of  Miletus,  from  which 
those  remarkable  women  who,  under  the  name  of  Hetaerae, 
exercised  afterwards  so  signal  an  influence  over  the  mind  and 
manners  of  Athens,  chiefly  derived  their  origin,  and  who  seem 
to  have  inspired  an  affection,  which  in  depth,  constancy,  and 
fervor,  approached  to  the  more  chivalrous  passion  of  the  North. > 


38  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

Such  an  education  consisted  not  only  in  the  feminine  and 
household  arts  honored  universally  throughout  Greece,  but  in  a 
kind  of  spontaneous  and  luxuriant  cultivation  of  all  that  capti- 
vates the  fancy  and  enlivens  the  leisure.  If  there  were  some- 
thing pedantic  in  their  affectation  of  philosophy,  it  was  so 
graced  and  vivified  by  a  brilliancy  of  conversation,  a  charm  of 
manner  carried  almost  to  a  science,  a  womanly  facility  of  soft- 
ening all  that  comes  within  their  circle,  of  suiting  yet  refining 
each  complexity  and  discord  of  character  admitted  to  their 
intercourse,  that  it  had  at  least  nothing  masculine  or  harsh. 
Wisdom,  taken  lightly  or  easily,  seemed  but  another  shape  of 
poetry.  The  matrons  of  Athens,  who  could  often  neither  read 
nor  write — ignorant,  vain,  tawdry,  and  not  always  faithful,  if 
we  may  trust  to  such  scandal  as  has  reached  the  modern  time — 
must  have  seemed  insipid  beside  these  brilliant  strangers  ;  and 
while  certainly  wanting  their  power  to  retain  love,  must  have 
had  but  a  doubtful  superiority  in  the  qualifications  that  ensure 
esteem.  But  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  Hetaerae  (that 
mysterious  and  important  class  peculiar  to  a  certain  state  of 
society,  and  whose  appellation  we  cannot  render  by  any  proper 
word  in  modern  language)  monopolized  all  the  graces  of  their 
countrywomen.  In  the  same  cities  were  many  of  unblemished 
virtue  and  repute,  who  possessed  equal  cultivation  and  attrac- 
tion, but  whom  a  more  decorous  life  has  concealed  from  the 
equivocal  admiration  of  posterity;  though  the  numerous  female 
disciples  of  Pythagoras  throw  some  light  on  their  capacity  and 
intellect.  Among  such  as  these  had  been  the  mother  of  Cleo- 
nice,  not  long  since  dead,  and  her  daughter  inherited  and 
equalled  her  accomplishments,  while  her  virgin  youth,  her 
inborn  playfulness  of  manner,  her  pure  guilelessness,  which  the 
secluded  habits  of  the  unmarried  women  at  Byzantium  pre- 
served from  all  contagion,  gave  to  qualities  and  gifts  so  little 
published  abroad,  the  effect  as  it  were  of  a  happy  and  won- 
drous inspiration  rather  than  of  elaborate  culture. 

Such  was  the  fair  creature  whom  Diagoras,  looking  up  from 
his  pastime,  thus  addressed  : 

"And  so,  perverse  one,  thou  canst  not  love  this  great  hero, 
a  proper  person  truly,  and  a  mighty  warrior,  who  will  eat  you 
an  army  of  Persians  at  a  meal.  These  Spartan  fighting-cocks 
want  no  garlic,  I  warrant  you.*  And  yet  you  can't  love  him, 
you  little  rogue." 

"  Why,  my  father,"  said  Cleonice,  with  an  arch  smile,  and  a 

*  Fighting-cocks  were  fed  with  garlic,  to  make  them  more  fierce.  The  learned  reader 
will  remember  how  Theorus  advised  Dicieopolis  to  keep  clear  of  the  Thracians  with  garlic 
In  their  mouths. —See  the  "  Acharnians  "  of  Aristoph. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  39 

slight  blush,  "  even  if  I  did  look  kindly  on  Paur.anias,  would  it 
not  be  to  my  own  sorrow  ?  What  Spartan — above  all,  what 
royal  Spartan — may  marry  with  a  foreigner, and  a  Byzantine?" 

"  I  did  not  precisely  talk  of  marriage — a  very  happy  state, 
doubtless,  to  those  who  dislike  too  quiet  a  life,  and  a  very  hon- 
orable one,  for  war  is  honor  itself  ;  but  I  did  not  speak  of  that, 
Cleonice.  I  would  only  say  that  this  man  of  might  loves  thee — 
that  he  is  rich,  rich,  rich.  Pretty  pickings  at  Plataea  ;  and  we 
have  known  losses,  my  child,  sad  losses.  And  if  you  do  not 
love  him,  why,  you  can  but  smile  and  talk  as  if  you  did,  and 
when  the  Spartan  goes  home,  you  will  lose  a  tormentor  and 
gain  a  dowry." 

"  My  father,  for  shame  !  " 

"  Who  talks  of  shame  ?  You  women  are  always  so  sharp  at 
finding  oracles  in  oak  leaves,  that  one  don't  wonder  Apollo 
makes  choice  of  your  sex  for  his  priests.  But  listen  to  me, 
girl,  seriously,"  and  here  Diagoras  with  a  great  effort  raised 
himself  on  his  elbow,  and  lowering  his  voice,  spoke  with  evi- 
dent earnestness.  "  Pausanias  has  life  and  death,  and,  what  is 
worse,  wealth  or  poverty  in  his  hands  ;  he  can  raise  or  ruin  us 
with  a  nod  of  his  head,  this  black-curled  Jupiter.  They  tell 
me  that  he  is  fierce,  irascible,  haughty  ;  and  what  slighted 
lover  is  not  revengeful  ?  For  my  sake,  Cleonice,  for  your  poor 
father's  sake,  show  no  scorn,  no  repugnance  ;  be  gentle,  play 
with  him,  draw  not  down  the  thunderbolt,  even  if  you  turn 
from  the  golden  shower." 

While  Diagoras  spoke  the  girl  listened  with  downcast  eyes 
and  flushed  cheeks,  and  there  was  an  expression  of  such  shame 
and  sadness  on  her  countenance  that  even  the  Byzantine, 
pausing  and  looking  up  for  a  reply,  was  startled  by  it. 

"  My  child,"  said  he,  hesitatingly  and  absorbed,  "  do  not 
misconceive  me.  Cursed  be  the  hour  when  the  Spartan  saw 
thee  ;  but  since  the  Fates  have  so  served  us,  let  us  not  make 
bad  worse.  I  love  thee,  Cleonice,  more  dearly  than  the  apple 
of  my  eye  ;  it  is  for  thee  I  fear,  for  thee  I  speak.  Alas  !  it  is 
not  dishonor  I  recommend,  it  is  force  I  would  shun." 

"Force!"  said  the  girl,  drawing  up  her  form  with  sudden 
animation.  "  Fear  not  that.  It  is  not  Pausanias  I  dread, 
it  is — " 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  No  matter  ;  talk  of  this  no  more.     Shall  I  sing  to  thee  ?  " 

"  But  Pausanias  will  visit  us  this  very  night." 

"  I  know  it.  Hark  !  "  and  with  her  finger  to  her  lip,  her  ear 
bent  downward,  her  cheek  varying  from  pale  to  red,  from  red 


40  I'AUSAMAb,     i'HE    SPARTAN. 

to  pale,  the  maiden  stole  beyond  the  window  to  a  kind  of  plat- 
form or  terrace  that  overhung  the  sea.  There,  the  faint  breeze 
stirring  her  long  hair,  and  the  moonlight  full  upon  her  face, 
she  stood,  as  stood  that  immortal  priestess  who  looked  along 
the  starry  Hellespont  for  the  young  Leander  ;  and  her  ear  had 
not  deceived  her.  The  oars  were  dashing  in  the  waves  below, 
and  dark  and  rapid  the  boat  bounded  on  towards  the  rocky 
shore.  She  gazed  long  and  steadfastly  on  the  dim  and  shadowy 
forms  which  that  slender  raft  contained,  and  her  eye  detected 
amongst  the  three  the  loftier  form  of  her  haughty  wooer. 
Presently  the  thick  foliage  that  clothed  the  descent  shut  the 
boat,  nearing  the  strand,  from  her  view  ;  but  she  now  heard 
below,  mellowed  and  softened  in  the  still  and  fragrant  air,  the 
sound  of  the  cithara  and  the  melodious  song  of  the  Mothon, 
thus  imperfectly  rendered  from  the  language  of  immortal 
melody. 

SONG. 

Carry  a  sword  in  the  myrtle  bough, 
Ye  who  would  honor  the  tyrant  slayer  ; 
I,  in  the  leaves  of  the  myrtle  bough, 
Carry  a  tyrant  to  slay  myself. 

I  pluck'd  the  branch  with  a  hasty  hand, 
But  Love  was  lurking  amidst  the  leaves  ; 
His  bow  is  bent  and  his  shaft  is  poised, 
And  I  must  perish  or  pass  the  bough. 

Maiden,  I  come  with  a  gift  to  thee, 
Maiden,  I  come  with  a  myrtle  wreath  ; 
Over  thy  forehead,  or  round  thy  breast 
Bind,  I  implore  thee,  my  myrtle  wreath.* 

From  hand  to  hand  by  the  banquet  lights 
On  with  the  myrtle  bough  passes  song : 
From  hand  to  hand  by  the  silent  stars 
What  with  the  myrtle  wreath  passes  ?     Love. 

I  bear  the  god  in  a  myrtle  wreath. 
Under  the  stars  let  him  pass  to  thee  ; 
Empty  his  quiver  and  bind  his  wings, 
Then  pass  the  myrtle  wreath  back  to  me. 

Cleonice  listened  breathlessly  to  the  words,  and  sighed 
heavily  as  they  ceased.  Then,  as  the  foliage  rustled  below, 
she  turned  quickly  into  the  chamber  and  seated  herself  at  a 
little  distance  from  Diagoras  ;  to  all  appearance  calm,  indiffer- 
ent, and  composed.  Was  it  nature,  or  the  arts  of  Miletus, 

*  Garlands  were  twined  round  the  neck,  or  placed  upon  the  bosom  (vTro$Vfl.ia.fa<;).     See. 
'he  ^notations  from  Alcs»us,  Sappho,  and  Anacreon  in  Athenaeus,  book  xiii.  c.  17. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  41 

that  taught  the  young  beauty  the  hereditary  artifices  of 
the  sex  ? 

"  So  it  is  he,  then  ?  "  said  Diagoras,  with  a  fidgety  and  nerv- 
ous trepidation.  "  Well,  he  chooses  strange  hours  to  visit  us. 
But  he  is  right ;  his  visits  cannot  be  too  private.  Cleonice, 
you  look  provokingly  at  your  ease." 

Cleonice  made  no  reply,  but  shifted  her  position  so  that  the 
light  from  the  lamp  did  not  fall  upon  her  face,  while  her 
father,  hurrying  to  the  threshold  of  his  hall  to  receive  his  illus- 
trious visitor,  soon  reappeared  with  the  Spartan  Regent,  talking 
as  he  entered  with  the  volubility  of  one  of  the  parasites  of 
Alciphron  and  Athenaeus. 

"  This  is  most  kind,  most  affable.  Cleonice  said  you  would 
come,  Pausanias,  though  I  began  to  distrust  you.  The  hours 
seem  long  to  those  who  expect  pleasure." 

"And,  Cleonice, you  knew  that  I  should  come,"  said  Pau- 
sanias, approaching  the  fair  Byzantine  ;  but  his  step  was  timid, 
and  there  was  no  pride  now  in  his  anxious  eye  and  bended 
brow. 

"  You  said  you  would  come  to-night,"  said  Cleonice  calmly, 
"  and  Spartans,  according  to  proverbs,  speak  the  truth." 

"  When  it  is  to  their  advantage,  yes,"*  said  Pausanias,  with 
a  slight  curl  of  his  lips ;  and,  as  if  the  girl's  compliment  to  his 
countrymen  had  roused  his  spleen  and  changed  his  thoughts, 
he  seated  himself  moodily  by  Cleonice,  and  remained  silent. 

The  Byzantine  stole  an  arch  glance  at  the  Spartan,  as  he  thus 
sat,  from  the  corner  of  her  eyes,  and  said,  after  a  pause  : 

"You  Spartans  ought  to  speak  the  truth  more  than  other 
people,  for  you  say  much  less.  We  too  have,  our  proverb  at 
Byzantium,  and  one  which  implies  that  it  requires  some  wit  to 
tell  fibs." 

"  Child,  child  !  "  exclaimed  Diagoras,  holding  up  his  hand 
reprovingly,  and  directing  a  terrified  look  at  the  Spartan.  To 
his  great  relief,  Pausanias  smiled,  and  replied: 

"  Fair  maiden,  we  Dorians  are  said  to  have  a  wit  peculiar  to 
ourselves,  but  I  confess  that  it  is  of  a  nature  that  is  but  little 
attractive  to  your  sex.  The  Athenians  are  blander  wooers." 

"  Do  you  ever  attempt  to  woo  in  Lacedaemon,  then  ?  Ah, 
but  the  maidens  there,  perhaps,  are  not  difficult  to  please." 

"  The  girl  puts  me  in  a  cold  sweat !  "  muttered  Diagoras, 
wiping  his  brow.  And  this  time  Pausanias  did  not  smile  ;  he 
colored,  and  answered  gravely  : 

*  So  said  Thucydides  of  the  Spartans,  many  years  afterward  :  "  They  give  evidence  of 
honor  among  themselves,  but  with  respect  to  others,  they  consider  honorable  whatev«* 
pleads  them,  and  just  whatever  is  to  their  advantage."— See  Thucyd.,  lib.  v. 


42  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

"  And  is  it,  then,  a  vain  hope  for  a  Spartan  to  please  a  Byzan- 
tine?" 

"  You  puzzle  me.     That  is  an  enigma  ;  put  it  to  the  oracle." 

The  Spartan  raised  his  eyes  towards  Cleonice,  and,  as  she 
saw  the  inquiring,  perplexed  look  that  his  features  assumed, 
the  ruby  lips  broke  into  so  wicked  a  smile,  and  the  eyes  that 
met  his  had  so  much  laughter  in  them,  that  Pausanias  was 
fairly  bewitched  out  of  his  own  displeasure. 

"Ah,  cruel  one  !  "  said  he,  lowering  his  voice,  "I  am  not  so 
proud  of  being  Spartan  that  the  thought  should  console  me  for 
thy  mockery." 

"  Not  proud  of  being  Spartan  !  say  not  so,"  exclaimed  Cle- 
onice. "  Who  ever  speaks  of  Greece,  and  places  not  Sparta  at 
her  head  ?  Who  ever  speaks  of  freedom,  and  forgets  Thermo- 
pylae ?  Who  ever  burns  for  glory,  and  sighs  not  for  the  fame 
of  Pausanias  and  Plataea  ?  Ah,  yes,  even  in  jest  say  not  that 
you  are  not  proud  to  be  a  Spartan  ! " 

"  The  little  fool !  "  cried  Diagoras,  chuckling  and  mightily 
delighted  ;  "  she  is  quite  mad  about  Sparta — no  wonder  ! 

Pausanias,  surprised  and  moved  by  the  burst  of  the  fair 
Byzantine,  gazed  at  her  admiringly,  and  thought  within  himself 
how  harshly  the  same  sentiment  would  have  sounded  on  the 
lips  of  a  tall  Spartan  virgin  ;  but  when  Cleonice  heard  the 
approving  interlocution  of  Diagoras,  her  enthusiasm  vanished 
from  her  face,  and  putting  out  -her  lips  poutingly,  she  said  : 
"  Nay,  father,  I  repeat  only  what  others  say  of  the  Spartans. 
They  are  admirable  heroes  ;  but  from  the  little  I  have  seen, 
they  are — " 

"  What  ? "  said  Pausanias  eagerly,  and  leaning  nearer  to 
Cleonice. 

"  Proud,  dictatorial,  and  stern  as  companions." 

Pausanias  once  more  drew  back. 

"  There  it  is  again  !  "  groaned  Diagoras.  "  I  feel  exactly  as 
if  I  were  playing  at  odd  and  even  with  a  lion  ;  she  does  it  to  vex 
me.  I  shall  retaliate  and  creep  away." 

"  Cleonice,"  said  Pausanias,  with  suppressed  emotion,  "  you 
trifle  with  me,  and  I  bear  it." 

"You  are  condescending.  How  would  you  avenge  your- 
self ?  " 

"How  !" 

"  You  would  not  beat  me  ;  you  would  not  make  me  bear  an 
anchor  on  the  shoulders,  as  they  say  you  do  your  soldiers, 
Shame  on  you  !  you  bear  with  me  !  true,  what  help  for  you?" 

"  Maiden,"  said  the  Spartan,  rising  in  great  anger,  "for  him 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  43 

who  loves  and  is  slighted,  there  is  a  revenge  you  have  not 
mentioned." 

"  For  him  who  loves  !  No,  Spartan  ;  for  him  who  shuns  dis- 
grace and  courts  the  fame  dear  to  gods  and  men,  there  is  no 
revenge  upon  women.  Blush  for  your  threat." 

"You  madden,  but  subdue  me,"  said  the  Spartan  as  he  turned 
away.  He  then  first  perceived  that  Diagoras  had  gone — that 
they  were  alone.  His  contempt  for  the  father  awoke  suspi- 
cion of  the  daughter.  Again  he  approached  and  said  :  "Cleo- 
nice,  I  know  but  little  of  the  fables  of  poets,  yet  it  is  an  old 
maxim,  often  sung  and  ever  belied,  that  love  scorned  becomes 
hate.  There  are  moments  when  I  think  I  hate  thee." 

"  And  yet  thou  hast  never  loved  me,"  said  Cleonice  ;  and 
there  was  something  soft  and  tender  in  the  tone  of  her  voice, 
and  the  rough  Spartan  was  again  subdued. 

"  I  never  loved  thee  !  What,  then,  is  love  ?  Is  not  thine 
image  always  before  me  ? — amidst  schemes,  amidst  perils  of 
which  thy  very  dreams  have  never  presented  equal  perplexity 
or  phantoms  so  uncertain,  I  am  occupied  but  with  thee. 
Surely,  as  upon  the  hyacinth  is  written  the  exclamation  of  woe, 
so  on  this  heart  is  graven  thy  name.  Cleonice,  you  who  know 
not  what  it  is  to  love,  you  affect  to  deny  or  to  question 
mine." 

"  And  what,"  said  Cleonice,  blushing  deeply,  and  .with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  "  what  result  can  come  from  such  a  love  ?  You 
may  not  wed  with  the  stranger.  And  yet,  Pausanias,  yet  you 
know  that  all  other  love  dishonors  the  virgin  even  of  Byzan- 
tium. You  are  silent  ;  you  turn  away.  Ah,  do  not. let  them 
wrong  you.  My  father  fears  your  power.  If  you  love  me  you 
are  powerless  ;  your  power  has  passed  to  me.  Is  it  not  so  ?  I, 
a  weak  girl,  can  rule,  command,  irritate,  mock  you,  if  I  will. 
You  may  fly  me,  but  not  control." 

"  Do  not  tempt  me  too  far,  Cleonice,"  said  the  Spartan,  with 
a  faint  smile. 

"  Nay,  I  will  be  merciful  henceforth,  and  you,  Pausanias, 
come  here  no  more.  Awake  to  the  true  sense  of  what  is  due  to 
your  divine  ancestry — your  great  name.  Is  it  not  told  of  you 
that,  after  the  fall  of  Mardonius,  you  nobly  dismissed  to  her 
country,  unscathed  and  honored,  the  captive  Coan  lady  ?  * 
Will  you  reverse  at  Byzantium  the  fame  acquired  at  Plataea  ? 
Pausanias,  spare  me  ;  appeal  not  to  my  father's  fear,  still  less 
to  his  love  of  gold." 

"  I  cannot,  I  cannot  fly  thee,"  said   the  Spartan,  with  great 

*  Herod.,  ix- 


44  PAUSANIAS,    THF    SPARTAN. 

emotion.  "  You  know  not  how  stormy,  how  inexorable  are  the 
passions  which  burst  forth  after  a  whole  youth  of  restraint. 
When  nature  breaks  the  barrier,  she  rushes  headlong  on  her 
course.  I  am  no  gentle  wooer ;  where  in  Sparta  should  I  learn 
the  art  ?  But,  if  1  love  thee  not  as  these  mincing  lonians,  who 
come  with  offerings  of  flowers  and  song,  I  do  love  thee,  with 
all  that  fervor  of  which  the  old  Dorian  legends  tell.  I  could 
brave,  like  the  Thracian,  the  dark  gates  of  Hades,  were  thy 
embrace  my  reward.  Command  me  as  thou  wilt — make  me 
thy  slave  in  all  things,  even  as  Hercules  was  to  Omphale  ;  but 
tell  me  only  that  I  may  win  thy  love  at  last.  Fear  not.  Why 
fear  me  ?  In  my  wildest  moments  a  look  from  thee  can  control 
me.  I  ask  but  love  for  love.  Without  thy  love  thy  beauty 
were  valueless.  Bid  me  not  despair." 

Cleonice  turned  pale,  and  the  large  tears  that  had  gathered 
in  her  eyes  fell  slowly  down  her  cheeks  ;  but  she  did  not  with- 
draw her  hand  from  his  clasp,  or  avert  her  countenance  from 
his  eyes. 

"  I  do  not  fear  thee,"  said  she,  in  a  very  low  voice.  "  I  told 
my  father  so  ;  but — but  (and  here  she  drew  back  her  hand, 
and  averted  her  face) — "  I  fear  myself." 

"  Ah,  no,  no,"  cried  the  delighted  Spartan,  detaining  her, 
"  do  not  fear  to  trust  to  thine  own  heart.  Talk  not  of  dis- 
honor. There  are  (and  here  the  Spartan  drew  himself  up,  and 
his  voice  took  a  deeper  swell) — "  there  are  those  on  earth  who 
hold  themselves  above  the  miserable  judgments  of  the  vulgar 
herd — who  can  emancipate  themselves  from  those  galling  chains 
of  custom  and  of  country  which  helotize  affection,  genius, 
nature  herself.  What  is  dishonor  here  may  be  glory  elsewhere  ; 
and  this  hand  outstretched  towards  a  mightier  sceptre  than 
Greek  ever  wielded  yet,  may  dispense,  not  shame  and  sorrow, 
but  glory  and  golden  affluence  to  those  I  love." 

"  You  amaze  me,  Pausanias.  Now  I  fear  you.  What  mean 
these  mysterious  boasts  ?  Have  you  the  dark  ambition  to 
restore  in  your  own  person  that  race  of  tyrants  whom  your 
country  hath  helped  to  sweep  away  ?  Can  you  hope  to 
change  the  laws  of  Sparta,  and  reign  there,  your  will  the 
state  ?" 

"  Cleonice,  we  touch  upon  matters  that  should  not  disturb 
the  ears  of  women.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  been  roused  from 
myself." 

"  At  Miletus — so  have  I  heard  my  mother  say — there  were 
women  worthy  to  be  the  confidants  of  men." 

"But  they   were   women  who  loved.     Cleonice,   I    should 


PAUS'ANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  45 

rejoice  in  an  hour  when  I  might  pour  every  thought  into  thy 
bosom." 

At  this  moment  there  was  heard  on  the  strand  below  a  single 
note  from  the  Mothon's  instrument,  low,  but  prolonged  ;  it 
ceased,  and  was  again  renewed.  The  royal  conspirator  started 
and  breathed  hard. 

"  It  is  the  signal,"  he  muttered  ;  "they  wait  me,  Cleonice," 
he  said  aloud,  and  with  much  earnestness  in  his  voice,  "  1  had 
hoped,  ere  we  parted,  to  have  drawn  from  your  lips  those 
assurances  which  would  give  me  energy  for  the  present  and 
hope  in  the  future.  Ah,  turn  not  from  me  because  my  speech 
is  plain  and  my  manner  rugged.  What,  Cleonice,  what  if  I 
could  defy  the  laws  of  Sparta  ;  what  if,  instead  of  that  gloomy 
soil,  I  could  bear  thee  to  lands  where  heaven  and  man  alike 
smile  benignant  on  love  ?  Might  I  not  hope  then  ?  " 

"  Do  nothing  to  sully  your  fame." 

"  Is  it,  then,  dear  to  thee  ?" 

"  It  is  a  part  of  thee,"  said  Cleonice  falteringly  ;  and,  as  if 
she  had  said  too  much,  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Emboldened  by  this  emotion,  the  Spartan  gave  way  to  his 
passion  and  his  joy.  He  clasped  her  in  his  arms — his  first 
embrace — and  kissed,  with  wild  fervor,  the  crimsoned  fore- 
head, the  veiling  hands.  Then,  as  he  tore  himself  away,  he 
cast  his  right  arm  aloft. 

"O  Hercules  !  "  he  cried,  in  solemn  and  kindling  adjuration, 
"  my  ancestor  and  my  divine  guardian,  it  was  not  by  confining 
thy  labors  to  one  spot  of  earth  that  thou  wert  borne  from  thy 
throne  of  fire  to  ihe  seats  of  the  Gods.  Like  thee  I  will  spread 
the  influence  of  my  arms  to  the  nations  whose  glory  shall  be  my 
name  ;  and  as  thy  sons  my  fathers,  expelled  from  Sparta,  re- 
turned thither  with  sword  and  spear  to  defeat  usurpers  and  to 
found  the  long  dynasty  of  the  Heracleids,  even  so  may  it  be 
mine  to  visit  that  dread  abode  of  torturers  and  spies,  and  to 
build  up  in  the  halls  of  the  Atridae  a  power  worthier  of  the 
lineage  of  the  demigod.  Again  the  signal  !  Fear  not,  Cleo- 
nice, I  will  not  tarnish  my  fame,  but  I  will  exchange  the  envy 
of  abhorring  rivals  for  the  obedience  of  a  world.  One  kiss 
more  !  Farewell  !  " 

Ere  Cleonice  recovered  herself,  Pausanias  was  gone,  his  wild 
and  uncomprehended  boasts  still  ringing  in  her  ear.  She 
sighed  heavily,  and  turned  towards  the  opening  that  admitted 
to  the  terraces.  There  she  stood  watching  for  the  parting  of 
her  lover's  boat.  It  was  midnight ;  the  air,  laden  with  the  per- 
fumes of  a  thousand  fragrant  shrubs  and  flowers  that  bloom 


46  P  A  US  A  MAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

along  that  coast  in  the  rich  luxuriance  of  nature,  was  hushed 
and  breathless.  In  its  stillness  every  sound  was  audible,  the 
rustling  of  a  leaf,  the  ripple  of  a  wave.  She  heard  the  murmur 
of  whispered  voices  below,  and  in  a  few  moments  she  recognized, 
emerging  from  the  foliage,  the  form  of  Pausanias  ;  but  he  was 
not  alone.  Who  were  his  companions  ?  In  the  deep  lustre  of 
that  shining  and  splendid  atmosphere  she  could  see  sufficient 
of  the  outline  of  their  figures  to  observe  that  they  were  not 
dressed  in  the  Grecian  garb  ;  their  long  robes  betrayed  the 
Persian. 

They  seemed  conversing  familiarly  and  eagerly  as  they 
passed  along  the  smooth  sands,  till  a  curve  in  the  wooded  shore 
hid  them  from  her  view. 

"  Why  do  I  love  him  so,"  said  the  girl  mechanically,  "  and 
yet  wrestle  against  that  love  ?  Dark  forebodings  tell  me  that 
Aphrodite  smiles  not  on  our  vows.  Woe  is  me  !  What  will 
be  the  end  ?  " 

CHAPTER  V. 

ON  quitting  Cleonice,  Pausanius  hastily  traversed  the  long 
passage  that  communicated  with  a  square  peristyle  or  colon- 
nade, which  again  led,  on  the  one  hand,  to  the  more  public 
parts  of  the  villa,  and,  on  the  other,  through  a  small  door  left 
ajar,  conducted  by  a  back  entrance  to  the  garden  and  the  sea- 
shore. Pursuing  the  latter  path,  the  Spartan  bounded  down 
the  descent  and  came  upon  an  opening  in  the  foliage,  in  which 
Lysander  was  seated  beside  the  boat  that  had  been  drawn  par- 
tially on  the  strand. 

Alone  ?     Where  is  Alcman  ?" 
Yonder  ;  you  heard  his  signal  ?  " 
I  heard  it." 
'  Pausanias,  they  who  seek  you  are  Persians.     Beware  !  " 

Of  what  ?     Murder  ?     I  am  warned." 
'  Murder  to  your  good  name.     There  are  no  arms   against 
appearances." 

"  But  I  may  trust  thee  ?  "  said  the  Regent  quickly,  "  and  of 
Alcman's  faith  I  am  convinced." 

"Why  trust  to  any  man  what  it  were  wisdom  to  reveal  to  the 
whole  Grecian  Council  ?  To  parley  secretly  with  the  foe  is 
half  a  treason  to  our  friends." 

''  Lysander,"  replied  Pausanias  coldly,  "  you  have  much  to 
learn  before  you  can  be  wholly  Spartan.  Tarry  here  yet 
awhile." 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  47 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  this  boy  ?  "  muttered  the  conspirator 
as  he  strode  on.  "  I  know  that  he  will  not  betray  me,  yet  can 
I  hope  for  his  aid  ?  I  love  him  so  well  that  I  would  fain  he 
shared  my  fortunes.  Perhaps  by  little  and  little  I  may  lead 
him  on.  Meanwhile,  his  race  and  his  name  are  so  well  ac- 
credited in  Sparta,  his  father  himself  an  Ephor,  that  his 
presence  allays  suspicion.  Well,  here  are  my  Persians." 

A  little  apart  from  the  Mothon,  who,  resting  his  cithara  on  a 
fragment  of  rock,  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  reflection,  stood 
the  men  of  the  East.  There  were  two  of  them  ;  one  of  tall 
stature  and  noble  presence,  in  the  prime  of  life  ;  the  other 
more  advanced  in  years,  of  a  coarser  make,  a  yet  darker  com- 
plexion, and  of  a  sullen  and  gloomy  countenance.  They  were 
not  dressed  alike ;  the  taller,  a  Persian  of  pure  blood,  wore  a 
short  tunic  that  reached  only  to  the  knees  :  and  the  dress 
fitted  to  his  shape  without  a  single  fold.  On  his  round  cap  or 
bonnet  glittered  a  string  of  those  rare  pearls,  especially  and 
immemorially  prized  in  the  East,  which  formed  the  favorite 
and  characteristic  ornament  of  the  illustrious  tribe  of  the  Pasar- 
gadae.  The  other,  who  was  a  Mede,  differed  scarcely  in  his 
dress  from  Pausanias  himself,  except  that  he  was  profusely 
covered  with  ornaments  ;  his  arms  were  decorated  with  brace- 
lets, he  wore  earrings,  and  a  broad  collar  of  unpolished  stones 
in  a  kind  of  filigree  was  suspended  from  his  throat.  Behind 
the  Orientals  stood  Gongylus,  leaning  both  hands  on  his  staff, 
and  watching  the  approach  of  Pausanias  with  the  same  icy 
smile  and  glittering  eye  with  which  he  listened  to  the  passionate 
invectives  or  flattered  the  dark  ambition  of  the  Spartan.  The 
Oriental  saluted  Pausanias  with  a  lofty  gravity,  and  Gongylus 
drawing  near,  said  :  "  Son  of  Cleombrotus,  the  illustrious  Aria- 
manes,  kinsman  to  Xerxes,  and  of  the  House  of  the  Achaeme- 
nids,  is  so  far  versed  in  the  Grecian  tongue  that  I  need  not 
proffer  my  offices  as  interpreter,  In  Datis,  the  Mede,  brother 
to  the  most  renowned  of  the  Magi,  you  behold  a  warrior  worthy 
to  assist  the  arms  even  of  Pausanias." 

"  I  greet  ye  in  our  Spartan  phrase, '  The  beautiful  to  the 
good,'  "  said  Pausanias,  regarding  the  Barbarians  with  an  earn- 
est gaze.  "  And  I  requested  Gongylus  to  lead  ye  hither  in 
order  that  I  might  confer  with  ye  more  at  ease  than  in  the 
confinement  to  which  I  regret  ye  are  still  sentenced.  Not  in 
prisons  should  be  held  the  converse  of  brave  men." 

"  I  know,"  said  Ariamanes  (the  statelier  of  the  Barbarians), 
in  the  Greek  tongue,  which  he  spoke  intelligibly,  indeed,  but 
with  slowness  and  hesitation,  "  I  know  that  I  am  with  that  hero 


48  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN'. 

who  refused  to  dishonor  the  corpse  of  Mardonius,  and  even 
though  a  captive  I  converse  without  shame  with  my  victor." 

"  Rested  it  with  me  alone,  your  captivity  should  cease," 
replied  Pausanius.  "  War,  that  has  made  me  acquainted  with 
the  valor  of  the  Persians,  has  also  enlightened  me  as  to  their 
character.  Your  King  has  ever  been  humane  to  such  of  the 
Greeks  as  have  sought  a  refuge  near  his  throne.  I  would  but 
imitate  his  clemency." 

"  Had  the  great  Darius  less  esteemed  the  Greeks  he  would 
never  have  invaded  Greece.  From  the  wanderers  whom  mis- 
fortune drove  to  his  realms,  he  learned  to  wonder  at  the  arts,  the 
genius,  the  energies  of  the  people  of  Hellas.  He  desired  less 
to  win  their  territories  than  to  gain  such  subjects.  Too  vast, 
alas,  was  the  work  he  bequeathed  to  Xerxes." 

"  He  should  not  have  trusted  to  force  alone,"  returned  Pau- 
sanias.  "  Greece  may  be  won,  but  by  the  arts  of  her  sons,  not 
by  the  arms  of  the  stranger.  A  Greek  can  only  subdue  Greece. 
By  such  profound  knowledge  of  the  factions,  the  interests, 
the  envies,  and  the  jealousies  of  each  state  as  a  Greek  alone  can 
possess,  the  mistaken  chain  that  binds  them  might  be  easily 
severed  ;  some  bought,  some  intimidated,  and  the  few  that  hold 
out  subdued  amidst  the  apathy  of  the  rest." 

"  You  speak  wisely,  right  hand  of  Hellas,"  answered  the 
Persian,  who  had  listened  to  these  remarks  with  deep  attention. 
"Yet  had  we  in  our  armies  your  countryman,  the  brave 
Demaratus." 

"  But,  if  I  have  heard  rightly,  ye  too  often  disdained  his 
counsel.  Had  he  been  listened  to,  there  had  been  neither  a 
Salamis  nor  a  Plataea.*  Yet  Demaratus  himself  had  been  too 
long  a  stranger  to  Greece,  and  he  knew  little  of  any  state  save 
that  of  Sparta.  Lives  he  still  ?" 

"  Surely  yes,  in  honor  and  renown  ;  little  less  than  the  son 
of  Darius  himself." 

"  And  what  reward  would  Xerxes  bestow  on  one  of  greater 
influence  than  Demaratus  ;  on  one  who  has  hitherto  conquered 
every  foe,  and  now  beholds  before  him  the  conquest  of  Greece 
herself?" 

"If  such  a  man  were  found,"  answered  the  Persian,  "  let  his 

*  After  the  action  at  Thermopylae,  Demaratus  advised  Xerxes  to  send  three  hundred 
vessels  to  the  Laconian  coast,  and  seize  the  island  of  Cythera,  which  commanded  Sparta. 
"  The  profound  experience  of  Demaratus  in  the  selfish  and  exclusive  policy  of  his  country- 
men made  him  argue  that  if  this  were  done  the  fear  of  Sparta  for  herself  would  prevent  her 
joining  the  forces  of  the  rest  of  Greece,  and  leave  the  latter  a  more  easy  prey  to  the 
invader  " — "  Athens,  its  Rise  and  Fall."  This  advice  was  overruled  by  Achaemenes.  So 
again,  had  the  advice  of  Artemisia,  the  Carian  princess,  been  taken— to  delay  the  naval 
engagement  of  Salamis,  and  rather  to  sail  to  the  Peloponnesus— the  Greeks,  failing  of  pro- 
visions, and  divided  among  themselves,  would  probably  have  dispersed. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  49 

.bought  run  loose,  let  his  imagination  rove,  let  him  seek  only 
how  to  find  a  fitting  estimate  of  the  gratitude  of  the  King  and 
the  vastness  of  the  service." 

Pausanias  shaded  his  brow  with  his  hand,  and  mused  a  few 
moments  ;  then  lifting  his  eyes  to  the  Persian's  watchful  but 
composed  countenance,  he  said,  with  a  slight  smile  : 

"  Hard  is  it,  O  Persian,  when  the  choice  is  actually  before 
him,  for  a  ma«  to  renounce  his  country.  There  have  been 
hours  within  this  very  day  when  my  desires  swept  afar 
from  Sparta,  from  all  Hellas,  and  rested  on  the  tranquil  pomp 
of  Oriental  Satrapies.  But  now,  rude  and  stern  parent  though 
Sparta  be  to  me,  I  feel  still  that  I  am  her  son  ;  and,  while  we 
speak,  a  throne  in  stormy  Hellas  seems  the  fitting  object  of  a 
Greek's  ambition.  In  a  word,  then,  I  would  rise,  and  yet 
raise  my  country.  I  would  have  at  my  will  a  force  that  may 
suffice  to  overthrow  in  Sparta  its  grim  and  unnatural  laws,  to 
found  amidst  its  rocks  that  single  throne  which  the  son  of  a 
demigod  should  ascend.  From  that  throne  I  would  spread 
my  empire  over  the  whole  of  Greece,  Corinth  and  Athens  being 
my  tributaries.  So  that,  though  men  now,  and  posterity  here- 
after, may  say,  '  Pausanias  overthrew  the  Spartan  government,' 
they  shall  add,  'but  Pausanias  annexed  to  the  Spartan  sceptre 
the  realm  of  Greece.  Pausanias  was  a  tyrant,  but  not  a  traitor.' 
How,  O  Persian,  can  these  designs  accord  with  the  policy  of 
the  Persian  King?" 

"  Not  without  the  authority  of  my  master  can  I  answer  thee," 
replied  Ariamanes,  "so  that  my  answer  may  be  as  the  King's 
signet  to  his  decree.  But  so  much  at  least  I  say  :  that  it  is  not 
the  custom  of  the  Persians  to  interfere  with  the  institutions  of 
those  states  with  which  they  are  connected.  Thou  desirest  to 
make  a  monarchy  of  Greece,  with  Sparta  for  its  head.  Be  it 
so ;  the  King  my  master  will  aid  thee  so  to  scheme  and  so  to 
reign,  provided  thou  dost  but  concede  to  him  a  vase  of  the 
water  from  thy  fountains,  a  fragment  of  earth  from  thy 
gardens." 

"  In  other  words,"  said  Pausanias  thoughtfully,  but  with  a 
slight  color  on  his  brow,  "  if  I  hold  my  dominions  tributary  to 
the  King?" 

"The  dominions  that  by  the  King's  aid  thou  wilt  have  con- 
quered. Is  that  a  hard  law  ?  " 

"  To  a  Greek  and  a  Spartan  the  very  mimicry  of  allegiance 
to  a  foreigner  is  hard." 

The  Persian  smiled.  "  Yet,  if  I  understand  thee  aright,  O 
Chief,  even  kings  in  Sparta  are  but  subjects  to  their  people. 


50  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

Slave  to  a  crowd  at  home  ;  or  tributary  to  a  throne  abroad ; 
slave  every  hour,  or  tributary  for  earth  and  water  once  a  year, 
which  is  the  freer  lot?" 

"Thou  canst  not  understand  our  Grecian  notions,"  replied 
Pausanias,  "  nor  have  I  leisure  to  explain  them.  But  though  I 
may  subdue  Sparta  to  myself  as  to  its  native  sovereign,  1  will 
not,  even  by  a  type,  subdue  the  land  of  the  Heracleid  to  the 
Barbarian." 

Ariamanes  looked  grave  ;  the  difficulty  raised  was  serious. 
And  here  the  craft  of  Gongylus  interposed. 

"This  may  be  adjusted,  Ariamanes,  as  befits  both  parties. 
Let  Pausanias  rule  in  Sparta  as  he  lists,  and,  Sparta  stand  free 
of  tribute.  But  for  all  other  states  and  cities  that  Pausanias, 
aided  by  the  Great  King,  shall  conquer,  let  the  vase  be  filled, 
and  the  earth  be  Grecian.  Let  him  but  render  tribute  for 
those  lands  which  the  Persians  submit  to  his  sceptre.  So  shall 
the  pride  of  the  Spartan  be  appeased,  and  the  claims  of  the 
King  satisfied." 

"Shall  it  be  so?"  said  Pausanias. 

"  Instruct  me  so  to  propose  to  my  master,  and  I  will  do  my 
best  to  content  him  with  the  exception  to  the  wonted  rights  of 
the  Persian  diadem.  And  then,"  continued  Ariamanes,  "  then 
Pausanias,  Conqueror  of  Mardonius,  Captain  at  Plataea,  thou 
art  indeed  a  man  with  whom  the  lord  of  Asia  may  treat  as  an 
equal.  Greeks  before  thee  have  offered  to  render  Greece  to 
the  King  my  master ;  but  they  were  exiles  and  fugitives,  they 
had  nothing  to  risk  or  lose  ;  thou  hast  fame,  and  command, 
and  power,  and  riches,  and  all — " 

"But  for  a  throne,"  interrupted  Gongylus. 

"It  does  not  matter  what  may  be  my  motives,"  returned  the 
Spartan  gloomily,  "and  were  I  to  tell  them,  you  might  not 
comprehend.  But  so  much  by  way  of  explanation.  You,  too, 
have  held  command?  " 

"I  have." 

"  If  you  knew  that,  when  power  became  to  you  so  sweet  that 
it  was  as  necessary  to  life  itself  as  food  and  drink,  it  would 
then  be  snatched  from  you  forever,  and  you  would  serve  as  a 
soldier  in  the  very  ranks  you  had  commanded  as  a  leader ;  if 
you  knew  that  no  matter  what  your  services,  your  superiority, 
your  desires,  this  shameful  fall  was  inexorably  doomed,  might 
you  not  see  humiliation  in  power  itself,  obscurity  in  renown, 
gloom  in  the  present,  despair  in  the  future  ?  And  would  it  not 
seem  to  you  nobler  even  to  desert  the  camp  than  to  sink  into  a 
subaltern  ? " 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  5! 

"Such  a  prospect  has  in  our  country  made  out  of  good  sub- 
jects fierce  rebels,"  observed  the  Persian. 

"Ay,  ay,  I  doubt  it  not,"  said  Pausanias,  laughing  bitterly. 
"Well,  then,  such  will  be  my  lot,  if  I  pluck  not  out  a  fairer  one 
from  the  Fatal  Urn.  As  Regent  of  Sparta,  while  my  nephew 
is  beardless,  I  am  general  of  her  armies,  and  I  have  the  sway 
and  functions  of  her  King.  When  he  arrives  at  the  customary 
age,  I  am  a  subject,  a  citizen,  a  nothing,  a  miserable  fool  of 
memories  gnawing  my  heart  away  amidst  joyless  customs  and 
stern  austerities,  with  the  recollection  of  the  glories  of  Platsea 
and  the  delights  of  Byzantium.  Persian,  I  am  filled  from  the 
crown  to  the  sole  with  the  desire  of  power,  with  the  tastes  of 
pleasure.  I  have  that  within  me  which  before  my  time  has 
made  heroes  and  traitors,  raised  demigods  to  Heaven,  or 
chained  the  lofty  Titans  to  the  rocks  of  Hades.  Something  I 
may  yet  be ;  I  know  not  what.  But  as  the  man  never  returns 
to  the  boy,  so  never,  never,  never  once  more,  can  I  be  again  the 
Spartan  subject.  Enough  ;  such  as  I  am,  I  can  fulfil  what  I 
have  said  to  thee.  Will  thy  King  accept  me  as  his  ally,  and 
ratify  the  terms  I  have  proposed  ?" 

"I  feel  well-nigh  assured  of  it,"  answered  the  Persian  ;  "  for 
since  thou  hast  spoken  thus  boldly,  I  will  answer  thee  in  the 
same  strain.  Know,  then,  that  we  of  the  pure  race  of  Persia, 
we  the  sons  of  those  who  overthrew  the  Mede,  and  extended 
the  race  of  the  mountain  tribe  from  the  Scythian  to  the  Arab, 
from  Egypt  to  Ind,  we  at  least  feel  that  no  sacrifice  were  too 
great  to  redeem  the  disgrace  we  have  suffered  at  the  hands  of 
thy  countrymen  ;  and  the  world  itself  were  too  small  an  empire, 
too  confined  a  breathing  place  for  the  son  of  Darius,  if  this 
nook  of  earth  were  still  left  without  the  pale  of  his  dominion." 

"  This  nook  of  earth?  Ay,  but  Sparta  itself  must  own  no 
lord  but  me." 

"  It  is  agreed." 

"If  I  release  thee,  wilt  thou  bear  these  offers  to  the  King, 
travelling  day  and  night  till  thou  restest  at  the  foot  of  his 
throne  ? " 

"  I  should  carry  tidings  too  grateful  to  suffer  me  to  loiter  by 
the  road." 

"And  Datis,  he  comprehends  us  not;  but  his  eyes  glitter 
fiercely  on  me.  It  is  easy  to  see  that  thy  comrade  loves  not 
the  Greek." 

"  For  that  reason  he  will  aid  us  well.  Though  but  a  Mede, 
and  not  admitted  to  the  privileges  of  the  Pasargadae,  his 
relationship  to  the  most  powerful  and  learned  of  our  Magi,  and 


52  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

his  own  services  in  war,  have  won  him  such  influence  with  both 
priests  and  soldiers,  that  I  would  fain  have  him  as  my  compan- 
ion. I  will  answer  for  his  fidelity  to  our  joint  object." 

"  Enough  ;  ye  are  both  free.  Gongylus,  you  will  now  con- 
duct our  friends  to  the  place  where  the  steeds  await  them. 
You  will  then  privately  return  to  the  citadel,  and  give  to  their 
pretended  escape  the  probable  appearances  we  devised.  Be. 
quick,  while  it  is  yet  night.  One  word  more.  Persian,  our 
success  depends  upon  thy  speed.  It  is  while  the  Greeks  are 
yet  at  Byzantium,  while  I  yet  am  in  command,  that  we  should 
strike  the  blow.  If  the  King  consent,  through  Gongylus  thou 
wilt  have  means  to  advise  me.  A  Persian  army  must  march  at 
once  to  the  Phrygian  confines,  instructed  to  yield  command  to 
me  when  the  hour  comes  to  assume  it.  Delay  not  that  aid  by 
such  vast  and  profitless  recruits  as  swelled  the  pomp,  but 
embarrassed  the  arms,  of  Xerxes.  Armies  too  large  rot  by 
their  own  unwieldiness  into  decay.  A  band  of  50,000,  com- 
posed solely  of  the  Medes  and  Persians,  will  more  than  suffice. 
With  such  an  army,  if  my  command  be  undisputed,  I  will  win 
a  second  Platsea,  but  against  the  Greek.". 

"  Your  suggestions  shall  be  law.  May  Ormuzd  favor  the 
bold  ! " 

"  Away,  Gongylus.     You  know  the  rest." 

Pausanias  followed  with  thoughtful  eyes  the  receding  forms  of 
Gongylus  and  the  Barbarians.  "  I  have  passed  forever,"  he 
muttered,  "  the  pillars  of  Hercules.  I  must  go  on  or  perish. 
If  I  fall,  I  die  execrated  and  abhorred  ;  if  I  succeed,  the  sound 
of  the  choral  flutes  will  drown  the  hootings.  Be  it  as  it  may, 
I  do  not  and  will  not  repent.  If  the  wolf  gnaw  my  entrails, 
none  shall  hear  me  groan."  He  turned  and  met  the  eyes  of 
Alcman,  fixed  on  him  so  intently,  so  exultingly,  that,  wonder- 
ing at  their  strange  expression,  he  drew  back  and  said  haught- 
ily :  "  You  imitate  Medusa,  but  I  am  stone  already." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  Mothon,  in  a  voice  of  great  humility,  "  if 
you  are  of  stone,  it  is  like  the  divine  one  which,  when  borne 
before  armies,  secures  their  victory.  Blame  me  not  that  I  gazed 
on  you  with  triumph  and  hope.  For,  while  you  conferred  with 
the  Persian,  methought  the  murmurs  that  reached  my  ear 
sounded  thus  :  '  When  Pausanias  shall  rise,  Sparta  shall  bend 
low,  and  the  Helot  shall  break  his  chains.'  " 

"  They  do  not  hate  me,  these  Helots  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  only  Spartan  they  love." 

14  Were  my  life  in  danger  from  the  Ephors — " 

"The  Helots  would  rise  to  a  man," 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  $$ 

c<  Did  I  plant  my  standard  on  Taygetus,  though  all  Sparta 
encamped  against  it — " 

"  All  the  slaves  would  cut  their  way  to  thy  side.  O  Pausanias, 
think  how  much  nobler  it  were  to  reign  over  tens  of  thousands 
who  become  freemen  at  thy  word,  than  to  be  but  the  equal  of 
ten  thousand  tyrants." 

"The  Helots  fight  well,  when  well  led,"  said  Pausanias,  as  if 
to  himself.  "Launch  the  boat." 

"  Pardon  me,  Pausanias,  but  is  it  prudent  any  longer  to 
trust  Lysander  ?  He  is  the  pattern  of  the  Spartan  youth,  and 
Sparta  is  his  mistress.  He  loves  her  too  well  not  to  blab  to 
her  every  secret." 

"O  Sparta,  Sparta,  wilt  thou  not  leave  me  one  friend?" 
exclaimed  Pausanias.  "  No,  Alcman,  I  will  not  separate  myself 
from  Lysander,  till  I  despair  of  his  alliance.  To  your  oars  ! 
be  qnick." 

At  the  sound  of  the  Mothon's  tread  upon  the  pebbles, 
Lysander,  who  had  hitherto  remained  motionless,  reclining  by 
the  boat,  rose  and  advanced  towards  Pausanias.  There  was  in 
his  countenance,  as  the  moon  shining  on  it  cast  over  his  statue- 
like  features  a  pale  and  marble  hue,  so  much  of  anxiety,  of 
affection,  of  fear,  so  much  of  the  evident,  unmistakable  solici- 
tude of  friendship,  that  Pausanias,  who,  like  most  men  envied 
and  unloved,  was  susceptible  even  of  the  semblance  of  attach- 
ment, muttered  to  himself  :  "  No,  thou  wilt  not  desert  me,  nor 
I  thee." 

"  My  friend,  my  Pausanias,"  said  Lysander,  as  he  approached, 
"  I  have  had  fears — I  have  seen  omens.  Undertake  nothing,  I 
beseech  thee,  which  thou  hast  meditated  this  night." 

"And  what  hast  thou  seen?"  said  Pausanias,  with  a  slight 
change  of  countenance. 

"  1  was  praying  the  Gods  for  thee  and  Sparta,  when  a  star 
shot  suddenly  from  the  heavens.  Pausanias,  this  is  the  eighth 
year,  the  year  in  which  on  moonless  nights  the  Ephors  watch 
the  heavens." 

"  And  if  a  star  fall  they  judge  their  kings,"  interrupted 
Pausanias  (with  a  curl  of  his  haughty  lip),  "  to  have  offended 
the  Gods,  and  suspend  them  from  their  office  till  acquitted  by 
an  oracle  at  Delphi,  or  a  priest  at  Olympia.  A  wise  supersti- 
tion. But,  Lysander,  the  night  is  not  moonless,  and  the  omen 
is  therefore  nought." 

Lysander  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  followed  his  chief- 
tain to  the  boat,  in  gloomy  silence. 


54  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN, 

BOOK    II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AT  noon  the  next  day,  not  only  the  vessels  in  the  harbor 
presented  the  same  appearance  of  inactivity  and  desertion 
which  had  characterized  the  preceding  evening,  but  the  camp 
itself  seemed  forsaken.  Pausanias  had  quitted  his  ship  for  the 
citadel,  in  which  he  took  up  his  lodgment  when  on  shore  : 
and  most  of  the  officers  and  sailors  of  the  squadron  were  dis- 
persed among  the  taverns  and  wine-shops,  for  which,  even  at 
that  day,  Byzantium  was  celebrated, 

It  was  in  one  of  the  lowest  and  most  popular  of  these  latter 
resorts,  and  in  a  large  and  rude  chamber,  or  rather  outhouse, 
separated  from  the  rest  of  the  building,  that  a  number  of  the 
Laconian  Helots  were  assembled.  Some  of  these  were  em- 
ployed as  sailors,  others  were  the  military  attendants  on  the 
Regent  and  the  Spartans  who  accompanied  him. 

At  the  time  we  speak  of,  these  unhappy  beings  were  in  the 
full  excitement  of  that  wild  and  melancholy  gayety  which  is 
almost  peculiar  to  slaves  in  their  hours  of  recreation,  and  in 
which  reaction  of  wretchedness  modern  writers  have  discov- 
ered the  indulgence  of  a  native  humor.  Some  of  them  were 
drinking  deep,  wrangling,  jesting,  laughing  in  loud  discord 
over  their  cups.  At  another  table  rose  the  deep  voice  of  a 
singer,  chanting  one  of  those  antique  airs  known  but  to  these 
degraded  sons  of  the  Homeric  Achaean,  and  probably  in  its 
origin  going  beyond  the  date  of  the  Tale  of  Troy  ;  a  song  of 
gross  and  rustic  buffoonery,  but  ever  and  anon  charged  with 
some  image  or  thought  worthy  of  that  language  of  the  univer- 
sal Muses.  His  companions  listened  with  a  rude  delight  to  the 
rough  voice  and  homely  sounds,  and  now  and  then  interrupted 
the  wassailers  at  the  other  tables  by  cries  for  silence,  winch 
none  regarded.  Here  and  there,  with  intense  and  fierce  anxi- 
ety on  their  faces,  small  groups  were  playing  at  dice  ;  for 
gambling  is  the  passion  of  slaves.  And  many  of  these  men,  to 
whom  wealth  could  bring  no  comfort,  had  secretly  amassed 
large  hoards  at  the  plunder  of  Platsea,  from  which  they  had 
sold  to  the  traders  of  ^Egina  gold  at  the  price  of  brass.  The 
appearance  of  the  rioters  was  startling  and  melancholy. 
They  were  mostly  stunted  and  undersized,  as  are  generally 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  55 

the  progeny  of  the  sons  of  woe  ;  lean  and  gaunt  with  early 
hardship,  the  spine  of  the  back  curved  and  bowed  by  habitual 
degradation  ;  but  with  the  hard-knit  sinews  and  prominent 
muscles  which  are  produced  by  labor  and  the  mountain  air  ; 
and  under  shaggy  and  lowering  brows  sparkled  many  a  fierce, 
perfidious,  and  malignant  eye  ;  while  as  mirth,  or  gaming,  or 
song  aroused  smiles  in  the  various  groups,  the  rude  features 
spoke  of  passions  easily  released  from  the  sullen  bondage  of 
servitude,  and  revealed  the  nature  of  the  animals  which  thral- 
dom had  failed  to  tame.  Here  and  there,  however,  were  to 
be  seen  forms,  unlike  the  rest,  of  stately  stature,  of  fair  pro- 
portions, wearing  the  divine  lineaments  of  Grecian  beauty. 
From  some  of  these  a  higher  nature  spoke  out,  not  in  mirth, 
that  last  mockery  of  supreme  woe,  but  in  an  expression  of 
stern,  grave,  and  disdainful  melancholy  ;  others,  on  the  con- 
trary, surpassed  the  rest  in  vehemence,  clamor,  and  exuberant 
extravagance  of  emotion,  as  if  their  nobler  physical  develop- 
ment only  served  to  entitle  them  to  that  base  superiority.  For 
health  and  vigor  can  make  an  aristocracy  even  among  Helots. 
The  garments  of  these  merrymakers  increased  the  peculiar 
effect  of  their  general  appearance.  The  Helots  in  military  ex- 
cursions naturally  relinquished  the  rough  sheep-skin  dress  that 
characterized  their  countrymen  at  home,  the  serfs  of  the  soil. 
The  sailors  had  thrown  off  for  coolness,  the  leather  jerkins 
they  habitually  wore,  and,  with  their  bare  arms  and  breasts, 
looked  as  if  of  a  race  that  yet  shivered,  primitive  and  unre- 
deemed, on  the  outskirts  of  civilization. 

Strangely  contrasted  with  their  rougher  comrades  were  those 
who,  placed  occasionally  about  the  person  of  the  Regent,  were 
indulged  with  the  loose  and  clean  robes  of  gay  colors  worn  by 
the  Asiatic  slaves  ;  and  these  ever  and  anon  glanced  at  their 
finery  with  an  air  of  conscious  triumph.  Altogether  it  was  a 
sight  that  might  well  have  appalled,  by  its  solemn  lessons  of 
human  change,  the  poet  who  would  have  beheld  in  that  em- 
bruted  flock  the  descendants  of  the  race  over  whom  Pelops  and 
Atreus,  and  Menelaus,  and  Agamemnon  the  king  of  men,  had 
held  their  antique  sway,  and  might  still  more  have  saddened 
the  philosopher  who  believed,  as  Menander  has  nobly  written, 
"  That  Nature  knows  no  slaves." 

Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  the  confused  and  uproarious  hub- 
bub, the  door  opened,  and  Alcman  the  Mothon  entered  the 
chamber.  At  this  sight  the  clamor  ceased  in  an  instant.  The 
party  rose,  as  by  a  general  impulse,  and  crowded  round  the 
new-comer. 


56  PAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

"  My  friends,"  said  he,  regarding  them  with  the  same  cairn 
and  frigid  indifference  which  usually  characterized  his  de- 
meanor, "you  do  well  to  make  merry  while  you  may,  for  some- 
thing tells  me  it  will  not  last  long.  We  shall  return  to  Lace- 
dsemon.  You  look  black.  So,  then,  is  there  no  delight  in  the 
thought  of  home  ?" 

"  Home  /"  muttered  one  of  the  Helots,  and  the  word,  sound- 
ing drearily  on  his  lips,  was  echoed  by  many,  so  that  it  circled 
like  a  groan. 

"  Yet  ye  have  your  children  as  much  as  if  ye  were  free,"  said 
Alcman. 

"  And  for  that  reason  it  pains  us  to  see  them  play,  unaware 
of  the  future,"  said  a  Helot  of  better  mien  than  his  comrades. 

"  But  do  you  know,"  returned  the  Mothon,  gazing  on  the 
last  speaker  steadily,  "  that  for  your  children  there  may  not  be 
a  future  fairer  than  that  which  your  fathers  knew  !  " 

"  Tush  ! "  exclaimed  one  of  the  unhappy  men,  old  before 
his  time,  and  of  an  aspect  singularly  sullen  and  ferocious. 
"  Such  have  been  your  half-hints  and  mystic  prophecies  for 
years.  What  good  comes  of  them  ?  Was  there  ever  an  oracle 
for  Helots?" 

"  There  was  no  repute  in  the  oracles  even  of  Apollo," 
returned  Alcman,  "  till  the  Apollo-serving  Dorians  became 
conquerors.  Oracles  are  the  children  of  victories." 

"  But  there  are  no  victories  for  us,"  said  the  first  speaker 
mournfully. 

"Never,  if  ye  despair,"  said  the  Mothon  loftily.  "What," 
he  added  after  a  pause,  looking  round  at  the  crowd  ;  "What, 
do  ye  not  see  that  hope  dawned  upon  us  from  the  hour  when 
thirty-five  thousand  of  us  were  admitted  as  soldiers,  ay,  and  as 
conquerors,  at  Platsea  ?  From  that  moment  we  knew  our 
strength.  Listen  to  me.  At  Samos  once  a  thousand  slaves — 
mark  me,  but  a  thousand — escaped  the  yoke — seized  on  arms, 
fled  to  the  mountains  (we  have  mountains  even  in  Laconia),  de- 
scended from  time  to  time  to  devastate  the  fields  and  to 
harass  their  ancient  lords.  By  habit  they  learned  war,  by 
desperation  they  grew  indomitable.  What  became  of  these 
slaves  ?  Were  they  cut  off  ?  Did  they  perish  by  hunger,  by 
the  sword,  in  the  dungeon  or  field?  No;  these  brave  men 
were  the  founders  of  Ephesus.  "* 

"  But  the  Samians  were  not  Spartans,"  mumbled  the  old 
Helot. 

"  As  ye  will,  as  ye  will,"  said  Alcman,  relapsing  into  his 

*  Malacus  ap.  A  then.,  6. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  57 

usual  coldness.  "I  wish  you  never  to  strike  unless  ye  are  pre- 
pared to  die  or  conquer." 

"Some  of  us  are,"  said  the  younger  Helot. 

"Sacrifice  a  cock  to  the  Fates,  then." 

"  But  why,  think  you,"  asked  one  of  the  Helots,  "  that  we 
shall  be  so  soon  summoned  back  to  Laconia?" 

"  Because  while  ye  are  drinking  and  idling  here — drones 
that  ye  are — there  is  commotion  in  the  Athenian  bee-hive 
yonder.  Know  that  Ariamanes  the  Persian  and  Datis  the 
Mede  have  escaped.  The  allies,  especially  the  Athenians,  are 
excited  and  angry  ;  and  many  of  them  are  already  come  in  a 
body  to  Pausanias,  whom  they  accuse  of  abetting  the  escape  of 
the  fugitives." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,  and  if  Pausanias  does  not  give  honey  in  his  words — 
and  few  flowers  grow  on  his  lips — the  bees  will  sting,  that  is 
all.  A  trireme  will  be  despatched  to  Sparta  with  complaints. 
Pausanias  will  be  recalled — perhaps  his  life  endangered." 

"  Endangered  !  "  echoed  several  voices. 

"Yes.  What  is  that  to  you — what  care  you  for  his  danger  ? 
He  is  a  Spartan." 

"  Ay,"  cried  one ;  "  but  he  has  been  kind  to  the 
Helots." 

"  And  we  have  fought  by  his  side,"  said  another. 

"  And  he  dressed  my  wound  with  his  own  hand,"  murmured 
a  third. 

"And  we  have  got  money  under  him,"  growled  a  fourth. 

"  And  more  than  all,"  said  Alcman,  in  a  loud  voice,  "  if  he 
lives,  he  will  break  down  the  Spartan  government.  Ye  will 
not  let  this  man  die  ? " 

"  Never  !  "  exclaimed  the  whole  assembly.  Alcman  gazed 
with  a  kind  of  calm  and  strange  contempt  on  the  flashing  eyes, 
the  fiery  gestures  of  the  throng,  and  then  said  coldly  : 

"  So  then  ye  would  fight  for  one  man  ? " 

"  Ay,  ay,  that  would  we." 

"But  not  for  your  own  liberties  and  those  of  your  children 
unborn  ?" 

There  was  a  dead  silence  ;  but  the  taunt  was  felt,  and  its 
logic  was  already  at  work  in  many  of  these  rugged  breasts. 

At  this  moment,  the  door  was  suddenly  thrown  open  ;  and  a 
Helot,  in  the  dress  worn  by  the  attendants  of  the  Regent, 
entered,  breathless  and  panting. 

"Alcman  !  the  gods  be  praised  you  are  here.  Pausanias 
commands  your  presence.  Lose  not  a  moment.  And  you, 


58  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

too,  comrades,  by  Demeter,  do  you  mean  to  spend  whole  days 
at  your  cups?  Come  to  the  citadel  ;  ye  may  be  wanted." 

This  was  spoken  to  such  of  the  Helots  as  belonged  to  the 
train  of  Pausanias. 

"  Wanted — what  for  ? "  said  one.  "  Pausanias  gives  us  a 
holiday  while  he  employs  the  sleek  Egyptians." 

"  Who  that  serves  Pausanias  ever  asks  that  question,  or  can 
foresee  from  one  hour  to  another  what  he  may  be  required  to 
do  ? "  returned  the  self-important  messenger,  with  great  con- 
tempt. 

Meanwhile  the  Mothon,  all  whose  movements  were  peculiarly 
silent  and  rapid,  was  already  on  his  way  to  the  citadel.  The 
distance  was  not  inconsiderable,  but  Alcman  was  swift  of  foot. 
Tightening  the  girdle  round  his  waist,  he  swung  himself,  as  it 
were,  into  a  kind  of  run,  which,  though  not  seemingly  rapid, 
cleared  the  ground  with  a  speed  almost  rivalling  that  of  the 
ostrich,  from  the  length  of  the  stride  and  the  extreme  regularity 
of  the  pace.  Such  was  at  that  day  the  method  by  which  mes- 
sages were  despatched  from  state  to  state,  especially  in  moun- 
tainous countries  ;  and  the  length  of  way  which  was  performed, 
without  stopping,  by  the  foot-couriers  might  startle  the  best- 
trained  pedestrians  in  our  times.  So  swiftly,  indeed,  did  the 
Mothon  pursue  his  course,  that  just  by  the  citadel  he  came  up 
with  the  Grecian  captains  who,  before  he  joined  the  Helots, 
had  set  off  for  their  audience  with  Pausanias.  There  were 
some  fourteen  or  fifteen  of  them,  and  they  so  filled  up  the  path, 
which,  just  there,  was  not  broad,  that  Alcman  was  obliged  to 
pause  as  he  came  upon  their  rear. 

"  And  whither  so  fast,  fellow  ?  "  said  Uliades  the  Samian, 
turning  round  as  he  heard  the  strides  of  the  Mothon. 

"Please  you,  master,  I  am  bound  to  the  General." 

"Oh,  his  slave  !     Is  he  going  to  free  you  ?  " 

"I  am  already  as  free  as  a  man  who  has  no  city  can  be." 

"  Pithy.  The  Spartan  slaves  have  the  dryness  of  their 
masters.  How,  sirrah  !  do  you  jostle  me  ?  " 

"  I  crave  pardon.     I  only  seek  to  pass." 

"  Never  !  to  take  precedence  of  a  Samian.     Keep  back." 

"  I  dare  not." 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  him  pass,"  said  the  young  Chian,  Antagoras  ; 
"  he  will  get  scourged  if  he  is  too  late.  Perhaps,  like  the 
Persians,  Pausanias  wears  false  hair,  and  wishes  the  slave  to 
dress  it  in  honor  of  us." 

"  Hush  !  "  whispered  an  Athenian.  "  Are  these  taunts  pru- 
dent?" 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN  59 

Here  there  suddenly  broke  forth  a  loud  oath  from  Uliades, 
who,  lingering  a  little  behind  the  rest,  had  laid  rough  hands 
on  the  Mothon,  as  the  latter  once  more  attemped  to  pass  him. 
With  a  dexterous  and  abrupt  agility,  Alcman  had  extricated 
himself  from  the  Samian's  grasp,  but  with  a  force  that  swung 
the  captain  on  his  knee.  Taking  advantage  of  the  position 
of  the  foe,  the  Mothon  darted  onward,  and  threading  the  rest 
of  the  party,  disappeared  through  the  neighboring  gates  of  the 
citadel. 

"  You  saw  the  insult  ? "  said  Uliades  between  his  ground 
teeth  as  he  recovered  himself.  "  The  master  shall  answer 
for  the  slave  ;  and  to  me,  too,  who  have  forty  slaves  of  my  own 
at  home  !  " 

"  Pooh  !  think  no  more  of  it,"  said  Antagoras  gayly  ;  "  the 
poor  fellow  meant  only  to  save  his  own  hide." 

"  As  if  that  were  of  any  consequence !  My  slaves  are 
brought  up  from  the  cradle  not  to  know  if  they  have  hides  or 
not.  You  may  pinch  them  by  the  hour  together  and  they 
don't  feel  you.  My  little  ones  do  it,  in  rainy  weather,  to 
strengthen  their  fingers.  The  Gods  keep  them  !  " 

"An  excellent  gymnastic  invention.  But  we  are  now  within 
the  citadel.  Courage  !  the  Spartan  greyhound  has  long  teeth." 

Pausanias  was  striding  with  hasty  steps  up  and  down  a  long 
and  narrow  peristyle  or  colonnade  that  surrounded  the  apart- 
ments appropriated  to  his  private  use,  when  Alcman  joined  him. 

"  Well,  well,"  cried  he  eagerly,  as  he  saw  the  Mothon,  "  you 
have  mingled  with  the  common  gangs  of  these  worshipful  sea- 
men, these  new  men,  these  lonians.  Think  you  they  have  so 
far  overcome  their  awe  of  the  Spartan  that  they  would  obey  the 
mutinous  commands  of  their  officers?" 

"  Pausanias,  the  truth  must  be  spoken — Yes  !  " 

"  Ye  Gods  !  one  would  think  each  of  these  wranglers  imagined 
he  had  a  whole  Persian  army  in  his  boat.  Why,  I  have  seen 
the  day  when,  if  in  any  assembly  of  Greeks  a  Spartan  entered, 
the  sight  of  his  very  hat  and  walking-staff  cast  a  terror  through 
the  whole  conclave." 

"  True,  Pausanias  ;  but  they  suspect  that  Sparta  herself  will 
disown  her  General." 

"  Ay  !  say  they  so?" 

"  With  one  voice." 

Pausanias  paused  a  moment  in  deep  and  perturbed  thought. 

"  Have  they  dared  yet,  think  you,  to  send  to  Sparta  ?  " 

"  I  hear  not ;  but  a  trireme  is  in  readiness  to  sail  after  your 
conference  with  the  captains." 


60  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

"  So,  Alcman,  it  were  ruin  to  my  schemes  to  be  recalled — 
until — until — " 

''The  hour  to  join  the  Persians  on  the  frontier — yes." 

"  One  word  more.  Have  you  had  occasion  to  sound  the 
Helots  ?  " 

"  But  half  an  hour  since.  They  will  be  true  to  you.  Lift 
your  right  hand,  and  the  ground  where  you  stand  will  bristle 
with  men  who  fear  death  even  less  than  the  Spartans." 

"  Their  aid  were  useless  here  against  the  whole  Grecian 
fleet;  but  in  the  defiles  of  Laconia,  otherwise.  I  am  prepared 
then  for  the  worst,  even  recall." 

Here  a  slave  crossed  from  a  kind  of  passage  that  led  from 
the  outer  chambers,  into  the  peristyle. 

"  The  Grecian  captains  have  arrived  to  demand  audience." 

"  Bid  them  wait,"  cried  Pausanias  passionately. 

"  Hist  !  Pausanias,"  whispered  the  Mothon.  "  Is  it  not  best 
to  soothe  them — to  play  with  them — to  cover  the  lion  with  the 
fox's  hide." 

The  Regent  turned  with  a  frown  to  his  foster-brother,  as  if 
surprised  and  irritated  by  his  presumption  in  advising  ;  and 
indeed,  of  late,  since  Pausanias  had  admitted  the  son  of  the 
Helot  into  his  guilty  intrigues,  Alcman  had  assumed  a  bearing 
and  tone  of  equality  which  Pausanias,  wrapped  in  his  dark 
schemes,  did  not  always  notice,  but  at  which  from  time  to  time  he 
chafed  angrily,  yet  again  permitted  it,  and  the  custom  gained 
ground  :  for  in  guilt  conventional  distinctions  rapidly  vanish, 
and  mind  speaks  freely  out  to  mind.  The  presence  of  the 
slave,  however,  restrained  him,  and  after  a  momentary  silence 
his  natural  acuteness,  great  when  undisturbed  by  passion  or 
pride,  made  him  sensible  of  the  wisdom  of  Alcman's  counsel. 

"  Hold  !  "  he  said  to  the  slave.  "  Announce  to  the  Grecian 
Chiefs  that  Pausanias  will  await  them  forthwith.  Begone. 
Now,  Alcman,  I  will  talk  over  these  gentle  monitors.  Not  in 
vain  have  I  been  educated  in  Sparta  :  yet  if  by  chance  I  fail, 
hold  thyself  ready  to  haste  to  Sparta  at  a  minute's  warning. 
I  must  forestall  the  foe.  I  have  gold,  gold  ;  and  he  who 
employs  most  of  the  yellow  orators  will  prevail  most  with  the 
Ephors.  Give  me  my  staff  ;  and  tarry  in  yon  chamber  to  the 
left." 

CHAPTER  II. 

IN  a  large  hall,  with  a  marble  fountain  in  the  middle  of  it, 
the  Greek  captains  awaited  the  coming  of  Pausanias.  A  low 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  6l 

and  muttered  conversation  was  carried  on  amongst  them,  in 
small  knots  and  groups,  amidst  which  the  voice  of  Uliades  was 
heard  the  loudest.  Suddenly  the  hum  was  hushed,  for  foot- 
steps were  heard  without.  The  thick  curtains  that  at  one 
extreme  screened  the  doorway  were  drawn  aside,  and,  attended 
by  three  of  the  Spartan  knights,  amongst  whom  was  Lysander, 
and  by  two  soothsayers,  who  were  seldom  absent,  in  war  or 
warlike  council,  from  the  side  of  the  Royal  Heracleid,  Pausan- 
ias  slowly  entered  the  hall.  So  majestic,  grave,  and  self-col- 
lected were  the  bearing  and  aspect  of  the  Spartan  general,  that 
the  hereditary  awe  inspired  by  his  race  was  once  more  awak- 
ened, and  the  angry  crowd  saluted  him,  silent  and  half-abashed. 
Although  the  strong  passions  and  the  daring  arrogance  of  Pau- 
sanias  did  not  allow  him  the  exercise  of  that  enduring,  syste- 
matic, unsleeping  hypocrisy  which,  in  relations  with  the  for- 
eigner, often  characterized  his  countrymen,  and  which,  from 
its  outward  dignity  and  profound  craft,  exalted  the  vice  into 
genius  ;  yet  trained  from  earliest  childhood  in  the  arts  that  hide 
design,  that  control  the  countenance,  and  convey  in  the  fewest 
words  the  most  ambiguous  meanings,  the  Spartan  general  could, 
for  a  brief  period,  or  for  a  critical  purpose,  command  all  the 
wiles  for  which  the  Greek  was  naturally  famous,  and  in  which 
Thucydides  believed  that,  of  all  Greeks,  the  Spartan  was  the 
most  skilful  adept.  And  now,  as  uniting  the  courtesy  of  the 
host  with  the  dignity  of  the  chief,  he  returned  the  salute  of  the 
officers,  and  smiled  his  gracious  welcome,  the  unwonted  affa- 
bility of  his  manner  took  the  discontented  by  surprise,  and 
half-propitiated  the  most  indignant  in  his  favor. 

"I  need  not  ask  you,  O  Greeks,"  said  he,  "  why  ye  have 
sought  me.  Ye  have  learnt  the  escape  of  Ariamanes  and 
Datis — a  strange  and  unaccountable  mischance." 

The  captains  looked  round  at  each  other  in  silence,  till  at 
last  every  eye  rested  upon  Cimon,  whose  illustrious  birth,  as 
well  as  his  known  respect  for  Sparta,  combined  with  his  equally 
well-known  dislike  of  her  chief,  seemed  to  mark  him,  despite 
his  youth,  as  the  fittest  person  to  be  speaker  for  the  rest. 
Cimon,  who  understood  the  mute  appeal,  and  whose  courage 
never  failed  his  ambition,  raised  his  head,  and,  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  replied  to  the  Spartan  : 

"  Pausanias,  you  guess  rightly  the  cause  which  leads  us  to 
your  presence.  These  prisoners  were  our  noblest ;  their  cap- 
ture the  reward  of  our  common  valor  ;  they  were  generals, 
moreover,  of  high  skill  and  repute.  They  had  become  experi- 
enced in  our  Grecian  warfare,  even  by  their  defeats.  Those 


62  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTVN.  * 

two  men,  should  Xerxes  again  invade  Greece,  are  worth  more 
to  his  service  than  half  the  nations  whose  myriads  crossed  the 
Hellespont.  But  this  is  not  all.  The  arms  of  the  Barbarians 
we  can  encounter  undismayed.  It  is  treason  at  home  which 
can  alone  appal  us." 

There  was  a  low  murmur  among  the  lonians  at  these  words. 
Pausanias,  with  well-dissembled  surprise  on  his  countenance, 
turned  his  eyes  from  Cimon  to  the  murmurers,  and  from  them 
again  to  Cimon,  and  repeated  : 

"  Treason,  son  of  Miltiades  !  and  from  whom  ?  " 

"  Such  is  the  question  that  we  would  put  to  thee,  Pausanias — 
to  thee,  whose  eyes,  as  leader  of  our  armies,  are  doubtless 
vigilant  daily  and  nightly  over  the  interests  of  Greece." 

"  I  am  not  blind,"  returned  Pausanias,  appearing  uncon- 
scious of  the  irony  :  "  but  I  am  not  Argus.  If  thou  hast  dis- 
covered aught  that  is  hidden  from  me,  speak  boldly." 

"  Thou  hast  made  Gongylus,  the  Eretrian,  governor  of  By- 
zantium ;  for  what  great  services  we  know  not.  But  he  has 
lived  much  in  Persia." 

"For  that  reason,  on  this  the  frontier  of  her  domains,  he  is 
better  enabled  to  penetrate  her  designs  and  counteract  her 
ambition." 

"  This  Gongylus,"  continued  Cimon,  "  is  well  known  to  have 
much  frequented  the  Persian  captives  in  their  confinement." 

"  In  order  to  learn  from  them  what  may  yet  be  the  strength 
of  the  King.  In  this  he  had  my  commands." 

"I  question  it  not.  But,  Pausanias,"  continued  Cimon, rais- 
ing his  voice  and  with  energy,  "  had  he  also  thy  commands 
to  leave  thy  galley  last  night,  and  to  return  to  the  citadel  ?  " 

"He  had.     What  then?" 

"  And  on  his  return  the  Persians  disappear — a  singular 
chance,  truly.  But  that  is  not  all.  Last  night,  before  he  re- 
turned to  the  citadel,  Gongylus  was  perceived,  alone,  in  a  re- 
tired spot  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city." 

"  Alone  ?  "  echoed  Pausanias. 

"  Alone.  If  he  had  companions  they  were  not  discerned. 
This  spot  was  out  of  the  path  he  should  have  taken.  By  this 
spot,  on  the  soft  soil,  are  the  marks  of  hoofs,  and  in  the  thicket 
close  by  were  found  these  witnesses,"  and  Cimon  drew  from 
his  vest  a  handful  of  the  pearls  only  worn  by  the  Eastern 
captives. 

"There  is  something  in  this,"  said  Xanthippus,  "  which  re- 
quires at  least  examination.  May  it  please  you,  Pausanias,  to 
summon  Gongylus  hither?" 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  63 

A  momentary  shade  passed  over  the  brow  of  the  conspirator, 
but  the  eyes  of  the  Greeks  were  on  him  ;  and  to  refuse  were  as 
dangerous  as  to  comply.  He  turned  to  one  of  his  Spartans, 
and  ordered  him  to  summon  the  Eretrian. 

"  You  have  spoken  well,  Xanthippus.  This  matter  must  be 
sifted." 

With  that,  motioning  the  captains  to  the  seats  that  were 
ranged  round  the  walls  and  before  a  long  table,  he  cast  himself 
into  a  large  chair  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  waited  in  silent 
anxiety  the  entrance  of  the  Eretrian.  His  whole  trust  now 
was  in  the  craft  and  penetration  of  his  friend.  If  the  courage 
or  the  cunning  of  Gongylus  failed  him — if  but  a  word  betrayed 
him — Pausanias  was  lost.  He  was  girt  by  men  who  hated  him; 
and  he  read  in  the  dark,  fierce  eyes  of  the  lonians — whose 
pride  he  had  so  often  galled,  whose  revenge  he  had  so  care- 
lessly provoked — the  certainty  of  ruin.  One  hand  hidden 
within  the  folds  of  his  robe  convulsively  clinched  the 
flesh,  in  the  stern  agony  of  his  suspense.  His  calm  and 
composed  face  nevertheless  exhibited  to  the  captains  no 
trace  of  fear. 

The  draperies  were  again  drawn  aside,  and  Gongylus  slowly 
entered. 

Habituated  to  peril  of  every  kind  from  his  earliest  youth,  the 
Eretrian  w?.s  quick  to  detect  its  presence.  The  sight  of  the 
silent  Greeks,  formally  seated  round  the  hall,  and  watching  his 
steps  and  countenance  with  eyes  whose  jealous  and  vindictive 
meaning  it  required  no  CEdipus  to  read,  the  grave  and  half- 
averted  brow  of  Pausanias,  and  the  angry  excitement  that  had 
prevailed  amidst  the  host  at  the  news  of  the  escape  of  the 
Persians — all  sufficed  to  apprise  him  of  the  nature  of  the 
council  to  which  he  had  been  summoned. 

Supporting  himself  on  his  staff,  and  dragging  his  limbs 
tardily  along,  he  had  leisure  to  examine,  though  with  apparent 
indifference,  the  whole  group  ;  and  when,  with  a  calm  saluta- 
tion, he  arrested  his  steps  at  the  foot  of  the  table  immediately 
facing  Pausanias,  he  darted  one  glance  at  the  Spartan  so  fear- 
less, so  bright,  so  cheering,  that  Pausanias  breathed  hard,  as  if 
a  load  were  thrown  from  his  breast,  and  turning  easily  towards 
Cimon,  said: 

"  Behold  your  witness.  Which  of  us  shall  be  questioner, 
and  which  judge?" 

"That  matters  but  little,"  returned  Cimon.  "Before  this 
audience  justice  must  force  its  way." 

"It  rests  with  you,  Pausanias,"  said  Xanthippus,  "to  ac- 


64  PAUSANIAS,    THli    SPARTAN. 

quaint  the  governor  of  Byzantium  with  the  suspicion  he  has 
excited." 

"  Gongylus,"  said  Pausanias,  "the  captive  Barbarians,  Aria- 
manes  and  Datis,  were  placed  by  me  especially  under  thy  vigi- 
lance and  guard.  Thou  knowest  that,  while  (for  humanity 
becomes  the  victor)  I  ordered  thee  to  vex  them  by  no  undue 
restraints,  I  nevertheless  commanded  thee  to  consider  thy  life 
itself  answerable  for  their  durance.  They  have  escaped.  The 
captains  of  Greece  demand  of  thee,  as  I  demanded — by  what 
means — by  what  connivance  ?  Speak  the  truth,  and  deem  that 
in  falsehood  as  well  as  in  treachery,  detection  is  easy,  and 
death  certain." 

The  tone  of  Pausanias,  and  his  severe  look,  pleased  and  re- 
assured all  the  Greeks,  except  the  wiser  Cimon,  who,  though 
his  suspicions  were  a  little  shaken,  continued  to  fix  his  eyes 
rather  on  Pausanias  than  on  the  Eretrian. 

"  Pausanias,"  replied  Gongylus,  drawing  up  his  lean  frame, 
as  with  the  dignity  of  conscious  innocence,  "  that  suspicion 
could  fall  upon  me,  I  find  it  difficult  to  suppose.  Raised  by 
thy  favor  to  the  command  of  Byzantium,  what  have  I  to  gain 
by  treason  or  neglect  ?  These  Persians — 1  knew  them  well. 
I  had  known  them  in  Susa — known  them  when  I  served  Darius 
being  then  an  exile  from  Eretria.  Ye  know,  my  countrymen, 
that  when  Darius  invaded  Greece  I  left  his  court  and  armies, 
and  sought  my  native  land,  to  fall  or  to  conquer  in  its  cause. 
Well,  then,  I  knew  these  Barbarians.  I  sought  them  frequently; 
partly,  it  may  be,  to  return  to  them  in  their  adversity  the  cour- 
tesies shown  me  in  mine.  Ye  are  Greeks  ;  ye  will  not  con- 
demn me  for  humanity  and  gratitude.  Partly  with  another 
motive.  I  knew  that  Ariamanes  had  the  greatest  influence 
over  Xerxes.  I  knew  that  the  great  King  would  at  any  cost 
seek  to  regain  the  liberty  of  his  friend.  I  urged  upon  Ariama- 
nes the  wisdom  of  a  peace  with  the  Greeks  even  on  their  own 
terms.  I  told  him  that  when  Xerxes  sent  to  offer  the  ransom, 
conditions  of  peace  would  avail  more  than  sacks  of  gold.  He 
listened  and  approved.  Did  I  wrong  in  this,  Pausanias  ?  No  ; 
for  thou,  whose  deep  sagacity  has  made  thee  condescend  even 
to  appear  half-Persian,  because  thou  art  all  Greek — thou  thyself 
didst  sanction  my  efforts  on  behalf  of  Greece." 

Pausanias  looked  with  a  silent  triumph  round  the  conclave, 
and  Xanthippus  nodded  approval  : 

"In  order  to  conciliate  them,  and  with  too  great  confidence 
in  their  faith,  I  relaxed  by  degrees  the  rigor  of  their  confine- 
ment ;  that  was  a  fault,  I  own  it.  Their  apartments  communi- 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  65 

cated  with  a  court  in  which  I  suffered  them  to  walk  at  will. 
But  I  placed  there  two  sentinels  in  whom  I  deemed  I  could 
repose  all  trust — not  my  own  countrymen — not  Eretrians — not 
thy  Spartans  or  Laconians,  Pausanias.  No  :  I  deemed  that  if 
ever  the  jealousy  (a  laudable  jealousy)  of  the  Greeks  should 
demand  an  account  of  my  faith  and  vigilance,  my  witnesses 
should  be  the  countrymen  of  those  who  have  ever  the  most 
suspected  me.  Those  sentinels  were,  the  one  a  Samian,  the 
other  a  Plataean.  These  men  have  betrayed  me  and  Greece. 
Last  night,  on  returning  hither  from  the  vessel,  I  visited  the 
Persians.  They  were  about  to  retire  to  rest,  and  I  quitted 
them  soon,  suspecting  nothing.  This  morning  they  had  fled, 
and  with  them  their  abetters,  the  sentinels.  I  hastened  first  to 
send  soldiers  in  search  of  them  ;  and,  secondly,  to  inform 
Pausanias  in  his  galley.  If  I  have  erred,  I  submit  me  to  your 
punishment.  Punish  my  error,  but  acquit  my  honesty." 

"  And  what,"  said  Cimon  abruptly,  "  led  thee  far  from  thy 
path,  between  the  Heracleid's  galley  and  the  citadel,  to  the 
fields  near  the  temple  of  Aphrodite,  between  the  citadel  and 
the  bay  ?  Thy  color  changes.  Mark  him,  Greeks.  Quick  ; 
thine  answer." 

The  countenance  of  Gongylus  had  indeed  lost  its  color  and 
hardihood.  The  loud  tone  of  Cimon — the  effect  his  confusion 
produced  on  the  Greeks,  some  of  whom,  the  lonians  less  self- 
possessed  and  dignified  than  the  rest,  half-rose,  with  fierce  ges- 
tures and  muttered  exclamations — served  still  more  to  embarrass 
and  intimidate  him.  He  cast  a  hasty  look  on  Pausanias,  who 
averted  his  eyes.  There  was  a  pause.  The  Spartan  gave  him- 
self up  for  lost  ;  but  how  much  more  was  his  fear  increased 
when  Gongylus,  casting  an  imploring  gaze  upon  the  Greeks, 
said  hesitatingly  : 

"Question  me  no  farther.  I  dare  not  speak";  and  as  he 
spoke  he  pointed  to  Pausanias. 

"It  was  the  dread  of  thy  resentment,  Pausanias,"  said  Cimon 
coldly,  "  that  withheld  his  confession.  Vouchsafe  to  reassure 
him." 

''  Eretrian,"  said  Pausanias,  striking  his  clenched  hand  on 
the  table,  "  I  know  not  what  tale  trembles  on  thy  lips ;  but,  be 
it  what  it  may,  give  it  voice,  I  command  thee." 

"  Thou  thyself — thou  wert  the  cause  that  led  me  towards  the 
temple  of  Aphrodite,"  said  Gongylus,  in  a  low  voice. 

At  these  words  there  went  forth  a  general  deep-breathed 
murmur.  With  one  accord  every  Greek  rose  to  his  feet.  The 
Spartan  attendants  in  the  rear  of  Pausanias  drew  closer  to  his 


60  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

person  ;  but  there  was  nothing  in  their  faces — yet  more  dark 
and  vindictive  than  those  of  the  other  Greeks- "-that  promised 
protection.  Pausanias  alone  remained  seated  and  unmoved. 
His  imminent  danger  gave  him  back  all  his  valor,  all  his  pride, 
all  his  passionate  and  profound  disdain.  With  unbleached 
cheek,  with  haughty  eyes,  he  met  the  gaze  of  the  assembly  ; 
and  then  waving  his  hand  as  if  that  gesture  sufficed  to  restrain 
and  awe  them,  he  said  : 

"  In  the  name  of  all  Greece,  whose  chief  I  yet  am,  whose 
protector  I  have  once  been,  I  command  ye  to  resume  your 
seats,  and  listen  to  the  Eretrian.  Spartans,  fall  back.  Gover- 
nor of  Byzantium,  pursue  your  tale." 

"  Yes,  Pausanias,"  resumed  Gongylus,  "  you  alone  were  the 
cause  that  drew  me  from  my  rest.  I  would  fain  be  silent, 
but—" 

"  Say  on,"  cried  Pausanias  fiercely,  and  measuring  the  space 
between  himself  and  Gongylus,  in  doubt  whether  the  Eretrian's 
head  were  within  reach  of  his  scimitar  ;  so  at  least  Gongylus 
interpreted  that  freezing  look  of  despair  and  vengeance,  and 
he  drew  back  some  paces.  "  I  place  myself,  O  Greeks,  under 
your  protection  ;  it  is  dangerous  to  reveal  the  errors  of  the 
great.  Know  that,  as  Governor  of  Byzantium,  many  things  ye 
wot  not  of  reach  my  ears.  Hence,  I  guard  against  dangers 
while  ye  sleep.  Learn,  then,  that  Pausanias  is  not  without  the 
weakness  of  his  ancestor,  Alcides  ;  he  loves  a  maiden — a  Byzan- 
tine— Cleonice  the  daughter  of  Diagoras." 

This  unexpected  announcement,  made  in  so  grave  a  tone, 
provoked  a  smile  amongst  the  gay  lonians  ;  but  an  exclama- 
tion of  jealous  anger  broke  from  Antagoras,  and  a  blush  partly 
of  wounded  pride,  partly  of  warlike  shame,  crimsoned  the 
swarthy  cheek  of  Pausanias.  Cimon,  who  was  by  no  means 
free  from  the  joyous  infirmities  of  youth,  relaxed  his  severe 
brow,  and  said,  after  a  short  pause  : 

"  Is  it,  then,  among  the  grave  duties  of  the  Governor  of 
Byzantium  to  watch  over  the  fair  Cleonice,  or  to  aid  the  suit  of 
her  illustrious  lover  ?  " 

"  Not  so,"  answered  Gongylus  ;  "  but  the  life  of  the  Grecian 
general  is  dear,  at  least,  to  the  grateful  Governor  of  Byzantium. 
Greeks,  ye  know  that  amongst  you  Pausanias  has  many  foes. 
Returning  last  night  from  his  presence,  and  passing  through 
the  thicket,  I  overheard  voices  at  hand.  I  caught  the  name  of 
Pausanias.  '  The  Spartan,'  said  one  voice,  '  nightly  visits  the 
house  of  Diagoras.  He  goes  usually  alone.  From  the  height 
near  the  temple  we  can  watch  well,  for  the  night  is  clear  ;  if  he 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  67 

goes  alone,  we  can  intercept  his  way  on  his  return.'  'To  the 
height  !'  cried  the  other.  I  thought  to  distinguish  the  voices, 
but  the  trees  hid  the  speakers.  I  followed  the  footsteps  towards 
the  temple,  for  it  behoved  me  to  learn  who  thus  menaced  the 
chief  of  Greece.  But  ye  know  that  the  wood  reaches  even  to 
the  sacred  building,  and  the  steps  gained  the  temple  before  I 
could  recognize  the  men.  I  concealed  myself,  as  I  thought,  to 
watch  ;  but  it  seems  that  I  was  perceived,  for  he  who  saw  me, 
and  now  accuses,  was  doubtless  one  of  the  assassins.  Happy 
I,  if  the  sight  of  a  witness  scared  him  from  the  crime.  Either 
fearing  detection,  or  aware  that  their  intent  that  night  was 
frustrated — for  Pausanias,  visiting  Cleonice  earlier  than  his 
wont,  had  already  resought  his  galley — the  men  retreated  as 
they  came,  unseen,  not  unheard.  I  caught  their  receding  steps 
through  the  brushwood.  Greeks,  I  have  said.  Who  is  my  ac- 
cuser ?  In  him  behold  the  would-be  murderer  of  Pausanias  !  " 

"  Liar  !  "  cried  an  indignant  and  loud  voice  amongst  the  cap- 
tains, and  Antagoras  stood  forth  from  the  circle.  "  It  is  I  who 
saw  thee.  Barest  thou  accuse  Antagoras  of  Chios?" 

'*  What  at  that  hour  brought  Antagoras  of  Chios  to  the 
temple  of  Aphrodite  ?  "  retorted  Gongylus. 

The  eyes  of  the  Greeks  turned  towards  the  young  captain, 
and  there  was  confusion  on  his  face.  But  recovering  himself 
quickly,  the  Chian  answered  :  "  Why  should  I  blush  to  own 
it  ?  Aphrodite  is  no  dishonorable  deity  to  the  men  of  the 
Ionian  Isles.  I  sought  the  temple  at  that  hour,  as  is  our  wont, 
to  make  my  offering,  and  record  my  prayer." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Cimon.  "  We  must  own  that  Aphrodite  is 
powerful  at  Byzantium.  Who  can  acquit  Pausanias  and  blame 
Antagoras  ?" 

"  Pardon  me — one  question,"  said  Gongylus.  "  Is  not  the 
female  heart  which  Antagoras  would  beseech  the  goddess  to 
soften  towards  him  that  of  the  Cleonice  of  whom  we  spoke  ? 
See,  he  denies  it  not.  Greeks,  the  Chians  are  warm  lovers,  and 
warm  lovers  are  revengeful  rivals." 

This  artful  speech  had  its  instantaneous  effect  amongst  the 
younger  and  more  unthinking  loiterers.  Those  who  at  once 
would  have  disbelieved  the  imputed  guilt  of  Antagoras  upon 
motives  merely  political,  inclined  to  a  suggestion  that  ascribed 
it  to  the  jealousy  of  a  lover.  And  his  character,  ardent  and 
fiery,  rendered  the  suspicion  yet  more  plausible.  Meanwhile 
the  minds  of  the  audience  had  been  craftily  drawn  from  the 
grave  and  main  object  of  the  meeting — the  flight  of  the  Per- 
sians— and  a  lighter  and  livelier  curiosity  had  supplanted  the 


68  PAUSANIAS,    Till.    SPARTAN. 

eager  and  dark  resentment  which  had  hitherto  animated  the 
circle.  Pausanias,  with  the  subtle  genius  that  belonged  to  him, 
hastened  to  seize  advantage  of  this  momentary  diversion  in  his 
favor,  and  before  the  Cliian  could  recover  his  consternation, 
both  at  the  charge  and  the  evident  effect  it  had  produced  upon 
a  part  of  the  assembly,  the  Spartan  stretched  his  hand,  and 
spake  : 

"  Greeks,  Pausanias  listens  to  no  tale  of  danger  to  himself. 
Willingly  he  believes  that  Gongylus  either  misinterpreted  the 
intent  of  some  jealous  and  heated  threats,  or  that  the  words  he 
overheard  were  not  uttered  by  Antagoras.  Possible  is  it,  too, 
that  others  may  have  sought  the  temple  with  less  gentle  desires 
than  our  Chian  ally.  Let  this  pass.  Unworthy  such  matters 
of  the  councils  of  bearded  men  ;  too  much  reference  has  been 
made  to  those  follies  which  our  idleness  has  given  birth  to. 
Let  no  fair  Briseis  renew  strife  amongst  chiefs  and  soldiers. 
Excuse  not  thyself,  Antagoras  ;  we  dismiss  all  charge  against 
thee.  On  the  other  hand,  Gongylus  will  doubtless  seem  to  you 
to  have  accounted  for  his  appearance  near  the  precincts  of  the 
temple.  And  it  is  but  a  coincidence,  natural  enough,  that  the 
Persian  prisoners  should  have  chosen,  later  in  the  night,  the 
same  spot  for  the  steeds  to  await  them.  The  thickness  of 
the  wood  round  the  temple,  and  the  direction  of  the  place 
towards  the  east,  points  out  the  neighborhood  as  the  very  one 
in  which  the  fugitives  would  appoint  the  horses.  Waste  no 
further  time,  but  provide  at  once  for  the  pursuit.  To  you, 
Cimon,  be  this  care  confided.  Already  have  I  despatched  fifty 
light-armed  men  on  fleet  Thessalian  steeds.  You,  Cimon, 
increase  the  number  of  the  pursuers.  The  prisoners  may  be 
yet  recaptured.  Doth  aught  else  remain  worthy  of  our  ears  ? 
If  so,  speak  ;  if  not,  depart." 

"Pausanias,"  said  Antagoras  firmly,  " let  Gongylus  retract, 
or  not,  his  charge  against  me,  I  retain  mine  against  Gongylus. 
Wholly  false  is  it  that  in  word  or  deed  I  plotted  violence  against 
thee,  though  of  much — not  as  Cleonice's  lover,  but  as  Grecian 
captain — 1  have  good  reason  to  complain.  Wholly  false  is  it 
that  I  had  a  comrade.  I  was  alone.  And  coming  out  from  the 
temple,  where  I  had  hung  my  chaplet,  I  perceived  Gongylus 
clearly  under  the  starlit  skies.  He  stood  in  listening  attitude 
close  by  the  sacred  myrtle  grove.  I  hastened  towards  him, 
but  methinks  he  saw  me  not ;  he  turned  slowly;  penetrated  the 
wood,  and  vanished.  I  gained  the  spot  on  the  soft  sward 
which  the  dropping  boughs  make  ever  humid.  I  saw  the  print 
of  hoofs.  Within  the  thicket  I  found  the  pearls  that  Cimon 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  69 

has  displayed  to  you.  Clear,  then,  is  it  that  this  man  lies — 
clear  that  the  Persians  must  have  fled  already — although  Gon- 
gylus  declares  that  on  his  return  to  the  citadel  he  visited  them 
in  their  prison.  Explain  this,  Eretri«n  ?  " 

"  He  who  would  speak  false  witness,"  answered  Gongylus, 
with  a  firmness  equal  to  the  Chian's,  "  can  find  pearls  at  whatso- 
ever hour  he  pleases.  Greeks,  this  man  presses  me  to  renew 
the  charge  which  Pausanias  generously  sought  to  stifle.  I  have 
said.  And  I,  Governor  of  Byzantium,  call  on  the  Council  of 
the  Grecian  Leaders  to  maintain  my  authority,  and  protect  their 
own  Chief." 

Then  arose  a  vexed  and  perturbed  murmur,  most  of  the 
lonians  siding  with  Antagoras,  such  of  the  allies  as  yet  clung 
to  the  Dorian  ascendancy  grouping  round  Gongylus. 

The  persistence  of  Antagoras  had  made  the  dilemma  of  no 
slight  embarrassment  to  Pausanias.  Something  lofty  in  his 
original  nature  urged  him  to  shrink  from  supporting  Gongylus 
in  an  accusation  which  he  believed  untrue.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  could  not  abandon  his  accomplice  in  an  effort,  as  dangerous 
as  it  was  crafty,  to  conceal  their  common  guilt. 

"  Son  of  Miltiades,"  he  said,  after  a  brief  pause,  in  which  his 
dexterous  resolution  was  formed,  "  I  invoke  your  aid  to  appease 
a  contest  in  which  I  foresee  no  result  but  that  of  schism  amongst 
ourselves.  Antagoras  has  no  witness  to  support  his  tale,  Gon- 
gylus none  to  support  his  own.  Who  shall  decide  between 
conflicting  testimonies  which  rest  but  on  the  lips  of  accuser  and 
accused  ?  Hereafter,  if  the  matter  be  deemed  sufficiently  grave, 
let  us  refer  the  decision  to  the  oracle  that  never  errs.  Time 
and  chance  meanwhile  may  favor  us  in  clearing  up  the  darkness 
we  cannot  now  penetrate.  For  you,  Governor  of  Byzantium, 
it  behoves  me  to  say  that  the  escape  of  prisoners  entrusted  to 
your  charge  justifies  vigilance  if  not  suspicion.  We  shall  con- 
sult at  our  leisure  whether  or  not  that  course  suffices  to  remove 
you  from  the  government  of  Byzantium.  Heralds,  advance ; 
our  council  is  dissolved." 

With  these  words  Pausanias  rose,  and  the  majesty  of  his  bear- 
ing, with  the  unwonted  temper  and  conciliation  of  his  lan- 
guage, so  came  in  aid  of  his  high  office  that  no  man  ventured 
a  dissentient  murmur. 

The  conclave  broke  up,  and  not  till  its  members  had  gained 
the  outer  air  did  any  signs  of  suspicion  or  dissatisfaction  evince 
themselves  ;  but  then,  gathering  in  groups,  the  lonians  with 
especial  jealousy  discussed  what  had  passed,  and  with  their 
native  shrewdness  ascribed  the  moderation  of  Pausanias  to  his 


70  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

desire  to  screen  Gongylus  and  avoid  further  inquisition  into 
the  flight  of  the  prisoners.  The  discontented  looked  round  for 
Cimon,  but  the  young  Athenian  had  hastily  retired  from  the 
throng,  and,  after  issuing'orders  to  pursue  the  fugitives,  sought 
Aristides  in  the  house  near  the  quay  in  which  he  lodged. 

Cimon  related  to  his  friend  what  had  passed  at  the  meeting, 
and  terminating  his  recital,  said  : 

"Thou  shouldst  have  been  with  us.  With  thee  we  might 
have  ventured  more." 

"  And  if  so,"  returned  the  wise  Athenian  with  a  smile,  "  ye 
would  have  prospered  less.  Precisely  because  I  would  not 
commit  our  country  to  the  suspicion  of  fomenting  intrigues 
and  mutiny  to  her  own  advantage,  did  I  abstain  from  the 
assembly,  well  aware  that  Pausanias  would  bring  his  minion 
harmless  from  the  unsupported  •  accusation  of  Antagoras. 
Thou  has  acted  with  cool  judgment,  Cimon.  The  Spartan  is 
weaving  the  webs  of  the  Parcse  for  his  own  feet.  Leave  him 
to  weave  on,  undisturbed.  The  hour  in  which  Athens  shall 
assume  the  sovereignty  of  the  seas  is  drawing  near.  Let  it 
come,  like  Jove's  thunder,  in  a  calm  sky." 


CHAPTER  III. 

PAUSANIAS  did  not  that  night  quit  the  city.  After  the  meet- 
ing, he  held  a  private  conference  with  the  Spartan  Equals, 
whom  custom  and  the  government  assigned,  in  appearance  as 
his  attendants,  in  reality  as  witnesses  if  not  spies  of  his  con- 
duct. Though  every  pure  Spartan,  as  compared  with  the  sub- 
ject Laconian  population,  was  noble,  the  republic  acknowledged 
two  main  distinctions  in  class,  the  higher,  entitled  Equals,  a 
word  which  we  might  not  inaptly  and  more  intelligibly  render 
Peers  ;  the  lower,  Inferiors.  These  distinctions,  though  heredi- 
tary, were  not  immutable.  The  peer  could  be  degraded,  the 
inferior  could  become  a  peer.  To  the  royal  person  in  war 
three  peers  were  allotted.  Those  assigned  to  Pausanias,  of  the 
tribe  called  the  Hylleans,  were  naturally  of  a  rank  and  influence 
that  constrained  him  to  treat  them  with  a  certain  deference, 
which  perpetually  chafed  his  pride  and  confirmed  his  discon- 
tent ;  for  these  three  men  were  precisely  of  the  mould  which 
at  heart  he  most  despised.  Polydorus,  the  first  in  rank — for, 
like  Pausanias,  he  boasted  his  descent  from  Hercules — was  the 
personification  of  the  rudeness  and  bigotry  of  a  Spartan  who 
had  never  before  stirred  from  his  rocky  home,  and  who  dis- 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  71 

dained  all  that  he  could  not  comprehend.  Gelon,  the  second, 
passed  for  a  very  wise  man,  for  he  seldom  spoke  but  in  mono- 
syllables ;  yet,  probably,  his  words  were  as  numerous  as  his 
ideas.  Cleomenes,  the  third,  was  as  distasteful  to  the  Regent 
from  his  merits  as  the  others  from  their  deficiencies.  He  had 
risen  from  the  grade  of  the  Inferiors  by  his  valor  ;  blunt, 
homely,  frank,  sincere,  he  never  disguised  his  displeasure  at  the 
manner  of  Pausanias,  though,  a  true  Spartan  in  discipline,  he 
never  transgressed  the  respect  which  his  chief  commanded  in 
time  of  war. 

Pausanias  knew  that  these  officers  were  in  correspondence 
with  Sparta,  and  he  now  exerted  all  his  powers  to  remove  from 
their  minds  any  suspicion  which  the  disappearance  of  the  pris- 
oners might  have  left  in  them. 

In  this  interview  he  displayed  all  those  great  natural  powers 
which,  rightly  trained  and  guided,  might  have  made  him  not 
less  great  in  council  than  in  war.  With  masterly  precision  he 
enlarged  on  the  growing  ambition  of  Athens,  on  the  disposition 
in  her  favor  evinced  by  all  the  Ionian  confederates.  "  Hitherto," 
he  said  truly,  "Sparta  has  uniformly  held  rank  as  the  first  state 
of  Greece  ;  the  leadership  of  the  Greeks  belongs  to  us  by  birth 
and  renown.  But  see  you  not  that  the  war  is  now  shifting 
from  land  to  sea  ?  Sea  is  not  our  element  ;  it  is  that  of  Athens, 
of  all  the  Ionian  race.  If  this  continue  weloseour  ascendancy, 
and  Athens  becomes  the  sovereign  of  Hellas.  Beneath  the 
calm  of  Aristides  I  detect  his  deep  design.  In  vain  Cimon 
affects  the  manner  of  the  Spartan  ;  at  heart  he  is  Athenian. 
This  charge  against  Gongylus  is  aimed  at  me.  Grant  that  the 
plot  which  it  conceals  succeed  ;  grant  that  Sparta  share  the 
affected  suspicions  of  the  lonians,  and  recall  me  from  Byzan- 
tium ;  deem  you  that  there  lives  one  Spartan  who  could  delay 
for  a  day  the  supremacy  of  Athens  ?  Nought  save  the  respect 
the  Dorian  Greeks  at  least  attach  to  the  General  at  Plataea  could 
restrain  the  secret  ambition  of  the  city  of  the  demagogues. 
Deem  not  that  I  have  been  as  rash  and  vain  as  some  hold  me 
for  the  stern  visage  I  have  shown  to  the  lonians.  Trust  me 
that  it  was  necessary  to  awe  them,  with  a  view  to  maintain  our 
majesty.  For  Sparta  to  preserve  her  ascendancy,  two  things 
are  needful :  first,  to  continue  the  war  by  land  ;  secondly,  to 
disgust  the  lonians  with  their  sojourn  here,  send  them  with 
their  ships  to  their  own  havens,  and  so  leave  Hellas  under  the 
sole  guardianship  of  ourselves  and  our  Peloponnesian  allies. 
Therefore  I  say,  bear  with  me  in  this  double  design  ;  chide  me 
pot  if  my  haughty  manner  disperse  these  subtle  lonians.  If  I 


72  PAUSAN1AS,    THK    SPARTAN. 

bore  with  them  to-day  it  was  less  from  respect  than,  shall  I  say 
it,  my  fear  lest  you  should  misinterpret  me.  Beware  how  you 
detail  to  Sparta  whatever  might  rouse  the  jealousy  of  her 
government.  Trust  to  me,  and  I  will  extend  the  dominion  of 
Sparta  till  it  grasp  the  whole  of  Greece.  We  will  depose  every- 
where the  revolutionary  Demos,  and  establish  our  own  oligarchies 
in  every  Grecian  state.  We  will  Laconize  all  Hellas." 

Much  of  what  Pausanias  said  was  wise  and  profound.  Such 
statesmanship,  narrow  and  congenial,  but  vigorous  and  crafty, 
Sparta  taught  in  later  years  to  her  alert  politicians.  And  we 
have  already  seen  that,  despite  the  dazzling  prospects  of  Ori- 
ental dominion,  he  as  yet  had  separated  himself  rather  from  the 
laws  than  the  interests  of  Sparta,  and  still  incorporated  his  own 
ambition  with  the  extension  of  the  sovereignty  of  his  country 
over  the  rest  of  Greece. 

But  the  peers  heard  him  in  dull  and  gloomy  silence  ;  and 
not  till  he  had  paused  and  thrice  asked  for  a  reply,  did  Poly- 
dorus  speak. 

"You  would  increase  the  dominion  of  Sparta,  Pausanias. 
Increase  of  dominion  is  waste  of  life  and  treasure.  We  have 
few  men,  little  gold  ;  Sparta  is  contented  to  hold  her  own." 

"Good, "said  Gelon,  with  impassive  countenance.  ''What 
care  we  who  leads  the  Greeks  into  blows  ?  The  fewer  blows 
the  better.  Brave  men  fight  if  they  must,  wise  men  never  fight 
if  they  can  help  it." 

"And  such  is  your  counsel,  Cleomenes?"  asked  Pausanias, 
with  a  quivering  lip. 

"  Not  from  the  same  reasons,"  answered  the  nobler  and 
more  generous  Spartan.  "  I  presume  not  to  question  your 
motives,  Pausanias.  I  leave  you  to  explain  them  to  the  Ephors 
and  the  Gerusia.  But  since  you  press  me,  this  I  say.  First, 
all  the  Greeks,  Ionian  as  well  as  Dorian,  fought  equally  against 
the  Mede,  and  from  the  commander  of  the  Greeks  all  should 
receive  fellowship  and  courtesy.  Secondly,  I  say  if  Athens  is 
better  fitted  than  Sparta  for  the  maritime  ascendancy,  let 
Athens  rule,  so  that  Hellas  be  saved  from  the  Mede.  .Thirdly, 
O  Pausanias,  I  pray  that  Sparta  may  rest  satisfied  with  her  own 
institutions,  and  not  disturb  the  peace  of  Greece  by  forcing 
them  upon  other  States  and  thereby  enslaving  Hellas.  What 
more  could  the  Persian  do  ?  Finally,  my  advice  is  to  suspend 
Gongylus  from  his  office  ;  to  conciliate  the  lonians  ;  to  remain 
as  a  Grecian  armament  firm  and  united,  and  so  procure,  on 
better  terms,  oeace  with  Persia.  And  then  let  each  State  retire 
within  itself,  and  none  aspire  to  rule  the  other,  A  thousand 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  73 

free  cities  are  better  guard  against  the  Barbarian  than  a  single 
State  made  up  of  republics  overthrown  and  resting  its  strength 
upon  hearts  enslaved." 

"  Do  you  too,"  said  Pausanias,  gnawing  his  nether  lip,  "  do 
you  too,  Polydorus,  you  too,  Gelon,  agree  with  Cleomenes,  that, 
if  Athens  is  better  fitted  than  Sparta  for  the  sovereignty  of 
the  seas,  we  should  yield  to  that  restless  rival  so  perilous  a 
power?" 

"  Ships  cost  gold,"  said  Polydorus.  "  Spartans  have  none 
to  spare.  Mariners  require  skilful  captains  ;  Spartans  know 
nothing  of  the  sea." 

"  Moreover,"  quoth  Gelon,  "  the  ocean  is  a  terrible  element. 
What  can  valor  do  against  a  storm  ?  We  may  lose  more  men 
by  adverse  weather  than  a  century  can  repair.  Let  who  will 
have  the  seas.  Sparta  has  her  rocks  and  defiles." 

"  Men  and  peers,"  said  Pausanias,  ill  repressing  his  scorn, 
"  ye  little  dream  what  arms  ye  place  in  the  hands  of  the  Atheni- 
ans. I  have  done.  Take  only  this  prophecy.  You  are  now 
the  head  of  Greece.  You  surrender  your  sceptre  to  Athens, 
and  become  a  second-rate  power." 

"  Never  second-rate  when  Greece  shall  demand  armed  men," 
said  Cleomenes  proudly. 

"  Armed  men,  armed  men  !  "  cried  the  more  profound  Pau- 
sanias. "  Do  you  suppose  that  commerce — that  trade — that 
maritime  energy — that  fleets  which  ransack  the  shores  of  the 
world,  will  not  obtain  a  power  greater  than  mere  brute-like 
valor  !  But  as  ye  will,  as  ye  will." 

"  As  we  speak  our  forefathers  thought,"  said  Gelon. 

"And,  Puisanias,"  said  Cleomenes  gravely,  "as  we  speak,  so 
think  the  Ephors." 

Pausanias  fixed  his  dark  eye  on  Cleomenes,  and,  after  a  brief 
pause,  saluted  the  F.quals  and  withdrew.  "  Sparta,"  he  mut- 
tered, as  he  regained  his  chamber,  "Sparta,  thou  refusest  to  be 
great ;  but  greatness  is  necessary  to  thy  son.  Ah,  their  iron 
laws  would  constrain  my  soul  !  but  it  shall  wear  them  as  a 
warrior  wears  his  armor  and  adapts  it  to  his  body.  Thou  shalt 
be  queen  of  all  Hellas  despite  thyself,  thine  Ephors,  and  thy 
laws.  Then  only  will  I  forgive  thee." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

DIAGORAS  was  sitting  outside  his  door  and  giving  various 
instructions  to  the  slaves  employed  on  his  farm,  when,  through 


7  \  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

an  arcade  thickly  covered  with   the  vine,  the  light  form  of  An- 
tagoras  came  slowly  in  sight. 

"  Hail  to  thee,  Diagoras,"  said  the  Chian,  "  thoti  art  the  only 
wise  man  I  meet  with.  Thou  art  tranquil  while  all  else  are 
disturbed ;  and,  worshipping  the  great  Mother,  thou  carest 
nought,  methinks,  for  the  Persian  who  invades,  or  the  Spartan 
who  professes  to  defend." 

"  Tut,"  said  Diagoras,  in  a  whisper,  "  thou  knowest  the  con- 
trary :  thou  knowest  that  if  the  Persian  comes  I  am  ruined  ; 
and,  by  the  gods,  I  am  on  a  bed  of  thorns  as  long  as  the  Spartan 
stays." 

"  Dismiss  thy  slaves,"  exclaimed  Antagoras,  in  the  same 
undertone  ;  "  I  would  speak  with  thee  on  grave  matters  that 
concern  us  both." 

After  hastily  finishing  his  instructions  and  dismissing  his 
slaves,  Diagoras  turned  to  the  impatient  Chian,  and  said : 

"  Now,  young  warrior,  I  am  all  ears  for  thy  speech." 

:<  Truly,"  said  Antagoras,  "  if  thou  wert  aware  of  what  I 
am  about  to  utter,  thou  wouldst  not  have  postponed  considera- 
tion for  thy  daughter  to  thy  care  for  a  few  jars  of  beggarly 
olives." 

"Hem  !  "  said  Diagoras  peevishly.  "Olives  are  not  to  be 
despised  ;  oil  to  the  limbs  makes  them  supple  ;  to  the  stomach 
it  gives  gladness.  Oil,  moreover,  bringeth  money  when  sold. 
But  a  daughter  is  the  plague  of  a  man's  life.  First  one  has  to 
keep  away  lovers  ;  and  next  to  find  a  husband  ;  and  when  all 
is  done,  one  has  to  put  one's  hand  in  one's  chest,  and  pay  a  tall 
fellow  like  thee  for  robbing  one  of  one's  own  child.  That 
custom  of  dowries  is  abominable.  In  the  good  old  times  a 
bridegroom,  as  was  meet  and  proper,  paid  for  his  bride  ;  now 
we  poor  fathers  pay  him  for  taking  her.  Well,  well,  never  bite 
thy  forefinger,  and  curl  up  thy  brows.  What  thou  hast  to  say, 
say." 

"  Diagoras,  I  know  that  thy  heart  is  better  than  thy  speech, 
and  that,  much  as  thou  covetest  money,  thou  lovest  thy  child 
more.  Know,  then,  that  Pausanias — a  curse  light  on  him  ! — 
brings  shame  upon  Cleonice.  Know  that  already  her  name 
hath  grown  the  talk  of  the  camp.  Know  that  bis  visit  to  her 
the  night  before  last  was  proclaimed  in  the  council  of  the 
Captains  as  a  theme  for  jest  and  rude  laughter.  By  the  head 
of  Zeus,  how  thinkest  thou  to  profit  by  the  stealthy  wooings  of 
this  black-browed  Spartan  ?  Knowest  thou  not  that  his  laws 
forbid  him  to  marry  Cleonice  ?  Wouldst  thou  have  him  dis- 
honor her  ?  Spe^k  out  to  him  as  thou  speakest-  to  men, 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  75 

tell  him  that  the  maidens  of  Byzantium  are  not  in  the  control  of 
the  General  of  the  Greeks." 

"Youth,  youth,"  cried  Diagoras,  greatly  agitated,  "  wouidst 
thou  bring  my  gray  hairs  to  a  bloody  grave  ?  Wouidst  thou  see 
my  daughter  reft  from  me  by  force — and — " 

"  How  darest  thoil  speak  thus,  old  man?"  interrupted  the 
indignant  Chian.  "  If  Pausanias  wronged  a  virgin,  all  Hellas 
would  rise  against  him." 

"  Yes,  but  not  till  the  ill  were  done,  till  my  throat  were  cut, 
and  my  child  dishonored.  Listen.  At  first  indeed,  when,  as 
ill-luck  would  have  it,  Pausanias,  lodging  a  few  days  under 
my  roof,  saw  and  admired  Cleonice,  I  did  venture  to  remon- 
strate, and  how  think  you  he  took  it  ?  '  Never,'  quoth  he,  with 
his  stern  quivering  lip,  'never  did  conquest  forego  its  best  right 
to  the  smiles  of  beauty.  The  legends  of  Hercules,  my  ances- 
tor, tell  thee  that  to  him  who  labors  for  men,  the  gods  grant 
the  love  of  women.  Fear  not  that  I  should  wrong  thy  daugh- 
ter— to  woo  her  is  not  to  wrong.  But  close  thy  door  on  me  ; 
immure  Cleonice  from  my  sight ;  and  nor  armed  slaves,  nor 
bolts,  nor  bars  shall  keep  love  from  the  loved  one.'  There- 
with he  turned  on  his  hsel  and  left  me.  But  the  next  day 
came  a  Lydian  in  his  train,  with  a  goodly  pannier  of  rich  stuffs, 
and  a  short  Spartan  sword.  On  the  pannier  was  written 
1  Friendship'  on  the  aword  '  Wrath,'  and  Alcman  gave  me  a 
scrap  of  parchment,  whereon,  with  the  cursed  brief  wit  of  a 
Spartan,  was  inscribed  'Choose'  !  Who  could  doubt  which  to 
take  ?  Who,  by  the  Gods,  would  prefer  three  inches  of  Spar- 
tan iron  in  his  stomach  to  a  basketful  of  rich  stuffs  for  his 
shoulders?  Wherefore,  from  that  hour,  Pausanias  comes 
as  he  lists.  But  Cleonice  humors  him  not,  let  tongues  wag 
as  they  may.  Easier  to  take  three  cities  than  that  child's 
heart." 

"Is  it  sro  indeed  ?"  exclaimed  the  Chian  joyfully  ;  "Cleonice 
loves  him  not  ?  " 

"  Laughs  at  him  to  his  beard  :  that  is,  would  laugh  if  he 
wore  one." 

"  Oh,  Diagoras  !  "  cried  Antagoras,  "  hear  me,  hear  me.  I 
need  not  remind  thee  that  our  families  are  united  by  the  hos- 
pitable ties  :  that  amongst  thy  treasures  thou  wilt  find  the  gifts 
of  my  ancestors  for  five  generations  ;  that  when,  a  year  since, 
my  affairs  brought  me  to  Byzantium,  I  came  to  thee  with  the 
symbols  of  my  right  to  claim  thy  hospitable  cares.  On  leaving 
thee  we  broke  the  sacred  die.  I  have  one  half,  thou  the  other. 
Jn  that  yj$it  I  saw  and  loved  Cleonicer  Fain  would  \  have. 


76  I'AUSANIAS,    THE    Sl'ARTAX. 

told  my  love,  but  then  my  father  lived,  and  I  feared  lest  he 
should  oppose  my  suit  ;  therefore,  as  became  me,  I  was  silent. 
3n  my  return  home,  my  fears  were  confirmed  ;  my  father  de- 
sired that  I,  a  Chian,  should  wed  a  Chian.  Since  I  have  been 
with  the  fleet,  news  has  reached  me  that  the  urn  holds  my 
father's  ashes."  Here  the  young  Chian  paused.  "  Alas,  alas  !  " 
he  murmured,  smiting  his  breast,  "and  I  was  not  at  hand  to 
fix  over  thy  doors  the  sacred  branch,  to  give  thee  the  parting 
kiss,  and  receive  into  my  lips  thy  latest  breath.  May  Hermes, 
O  father,  have  led  thee  to  pleasant  groves  !  " 

Diagoras,  who  had  listened  attentively  to  the  young  Chian, 
w**  touched  by  his  grief,  and  said  pityingly: 

'  i  know  thou  art  a  good  son,  and  thy  father  was  a  worthy 
man,  though  harsh.  It  is  a  comfort  to  think  that  all  does  nof 
die  with  the  dead.  His  money  at  least  survives  him." 

"  But,"  resumed  Antagoras,  not  heeding  this  consolation — 
"but  now  I  am  free:  and  ere  this,  so  soon  as  my  mourning 
garment  had  been  lain  aside,  I  had  asked  thee  to  bless  me  with 
Cleonice,  but  that  I  feared  her  love  was  gone— gone  to  the 
haughty  Spartan.  Thou  reassurest  me ;  and  in  so  doing,  thou 
confirmest  the  fair  omens  with  which  Aphrodite  has  received 
my  offerings.  Therefore,  I  speak  out.  No  dowry  ask  I  with 
Cleonice,  save  such,  more  in  name  than  amount,  as  may  dis- 
tinguish the  wife  from  the  concubine,  and  assure  her  an  hon- 
ored place  amongst  my  kinsmen.  Thou  knowest  I  am  rich  ; 
thou  knowest  that  my  birth  dates  from  the  oldest  citizens  of 
Chios.  Give  me  thy  child,  and  deliver  her  thyself  at  once 
from  the  Spartan's  power.  Once  mine,  all  the  fleets  of  Hellas 
are  her  protection,  and  our  marriage  torches  are  the  swords  of 
a  Grecian  army.  Oh,  Diagoras,  I  clasp  thy  knees  ;  put  thy 
right  hand  in  mine.  Give  me  thy  child  as  wife  !  " 

The  Byzantine  was  strongly  affected.  The  suitor  was  one 
who,  in  birth  and  possessions,  was  all  that  he  could  desire  for 
his  daughter;  and  at  Byzantium  there  did  not  exist  that  feel- 
ing against  intermarriages  with  the  foreigner  which  prevailed 
in  towns  more  purely  Greek,  though  in  many  of  them,  too,  that 
antique  prejudice  had  worn  away.  On  the  other  hand,  by 
transferring  to  Antagoras  his  anxious  charge,  he  felt  that  he 
should  take  the  best  course  to  preserve  it  untarnished  from 
the  fierce  love  of  Pausanias,  and  there  was  truth  in  the 
Chian's  suggestion.  The  daughter  of  a  Byzantine  might  be 
unprotected  ;  the  wife  of  an  Ionian  captain  was  safe,  even 
from  the  power  of  Pausanias.  As  these  reflections  occurred  to 
him,  he  placed  his  right  hand  in  the  Chian 's,  and  said : 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  77 

"  Be  it  as  thou  wilt ;  I  consent  to  betroth  thee  to  Cleonice. 
Follow  me  ;  thou  art  free  to  woo  her." 

So  saying,  he  rose,  and,  as  if  in  fear  of  his  own  second 
thoughts,  he  traversed  the  hall  with  hasty  strides  to  the  inte- 
rior of  the  mansion.  He  ascended  a  flight  of  steps,  and,  draw- 
ing aside  a  curtain  suspended  between  two  columns,  Antagoras, 
who  followed  timidly  behind,  beheld  Cleonice. 

As  was  the  wont  in  the  domestic  life  of  all  Grecian  states, 
her  handmaids  were  around  the  noble  virgin.  Two  were  en- 
gaged on  embroidery,  one  in  spinning,  a  fourth  was  reading 
aloud  to  Cleonice,  and  that  at  least  was  a  rare  diversion  to 
women,  for  few  had  the  education  of  the  fair  Byzantine.  Cleo- 
nice herself  was  half  reclined  upon  a  bench  inlaid  with  ivory 
and  covered  with  cushions ;  before  her  stood  a  small  tripod 
table  on  which  she  leant  her  arm,  the  hand  of  which  supported 
her  cheek,  and  she  seemed  listening  to  the  lecture  of  the  slave 
with  earnest  and  absorbed  attention — so  earnest,  so  absorbed, 
that  she  did  not  for  some  moments  perceive  the  entrance  of 
Diagoras  and  the  Chian. 

"Child,"  said  the  former,  and  Cleonice  started  to  her  feet, 
and  stood  modestly  before  her  father,  her  eyes  downcast, 
her  arms  crossed  upon  her  bosom — "child,  I  bid  thee  welcome 
my  guest-friend,  Antagoras  of  Chios.  Slaves,  ye  may  with- 
draw." 

Cleonice  bowed  her  head  ;  and  an  unquiet,  anxious  change 
came  over  her  countenance. 

As  soon  as  the  slaves  were  gone,  Diagoras  resumed  : 

"  Daughter,  I  present  to  thee  a  suitor  for  thy  hand  ;  receive 
him  as  I  have  done,  and  he  shall  have  my  leave  to  carve  thy 
name  on  every  tree  in  the  garden,  with  the  lover's  epithet  of 
'Beautiful'  attached  to  it.  Antagoras,  look  up,  then,  and 
speak  for  thyself." 

But  Antagoras  was  silent ;  and  a  fear  unknown  to  his  frank, 
hardy  nature  came  over  him.  With  an  arch  smile,  Diagoras, 
deeming  his  presence  no  longer  necessary  or  expedient,  lifted 
the  curtain,  and  lover  and  maid  were  left  alone. 

Then,  with  an  effort,  and  still  with  hesitating  accents,  the 
Chian  spoke  : 

"  Fair  virgin — not  in  the  groves  of  Byzantium  will  thy  name 
be  first  written  by  the  hand  of  Antagoras.  In  my  native  Chios 
the  myrtle  trees  are  already  eloquent  of  thee.  Since  I  first 
saw  thee,  I  loved.  Maiden,  wilt  thou  be  my  wife?" 

Thrice  moved  the  lips  of  Cleonice,  and  thrice  her  voice 
seemed  to  fail  her.  At  length  she  said:  "Chian,  thou  art  a 


78  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

stranger,  and  the  laws  of  the  Grecian  cities  dishonor  the 
stranger  whom  the  free  citizen  stoops  to  marry." 

"  Nay,"  cried  Antagoras,  "  such  cruel  laws  are  obsolete  in 
Chios.  Nature  and  custom,  and  love's  almighty  goddess,  long 
since  have  set  them  aside.  Fear  not,  the  haughtiest  matron  of 
my  native  state  will  not  be  more  honored  than  the  Byzantine 
bride  of  Antagoras." 

"  Is  it  in  Sparta  only  that  such  laws  exist  ?  "  said  Cleonice, 
half-unconsciously,  and  to  the  sigh  with  which  she  spoke  a  deep 
blush  succeeded. 

"  Sparta  !"  exclaimed  Antagoras,  with  a  fierce  and  jealous 
pang.  "Ah,  are  thy  thoughts  then  upon  the  son  of  Sparta? 
Were  Pausanias  a  Chian,  wouldstthou  turn  from  him  scornfully 
as  thou  now  dost  from  me  ?" 

"  Not  scornfully,  Antagoras,"  answered  Cleonice  (who  had 
indeed  averted  her  face  at  his  reproachful  question  ;  but  now 
turned  it  full  upon  him,  with  an  expression  of  sad  and  pathetic 
sweetness),  "  not  scornfully  do  I  turn  from  thee,  though  with 
pain  ;  for  what  worthier  homage  canst  thou  render  to  woman 
than  honorable  love  ?  Gratefully  do  I  hearken  to  the  suit  that 
comes  from  thee  ;  but  gratitude  is  not  the  return  thou  wouldst 
ask,  Antagoras.  My  hand  is  my  father's ;  my  heart,  alas,  is 
mine.  Thou  mayst  claim  from  him  the  orje  ;  the  other,  neither 
he  can  give  nor  thou  receive." 

"  Say  not  so,  Cleonice," cried  the  Chian  ;  "say  not,  that  thou 
canst  not  love  me,  if  so  I  am  to  interpret  thy  words.  Love 
brings  love  with  the  young.  How  canst  thou  yet  know  thine 
own  heart  ?  Tarry  till  thou  hast  listened  to  mine.  As  the  fire 
on  the  altar  spreads  from  offering  to  offering,  so  spreads  love ; 
its  flame  envelops  all  that  are  near  to  it.  Thy  heart  will  catch 
the  heavenly  spark  from  mine." 

"Chian,"  said  Cleonice, gently  withdrawing  the  hand  that  he 
sought  to  clasp,  "  when  as  my  father's  guest-friend  thou  wert  a 
sojourner  within  these  walls,  oft  have  I  heard  thee  speak,  and 
all  thy  words  spoke  the  thoughts  of  a  noble  soul.  Were  it 
otherwise,  not  thus  would  I  now  address  thee.  Didst  thou  love 
gold,  and  wooed  in  me  but  the  child  of  the  rich  Diagoras,  or 
wert  thou  one  of  those  who  would  treat  for  a  wife  as  a 
trader  for  a  slave,  invoking  Here,  but  disdaining  Aphrodite, 
I  should  bow  my  head  to  my  doom.  But  thou,  Antagoras, 
askejt  love  for  love ;  this  I  cannot  give  thee.  Spare  me, 
O  generous  Chian.  Let  not  my  father  enforce  his  right  to  my 
obedience." 

"Answer  me  but  one  question,"  interrupted  Antagoras  in  a 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  79 

low  voice,  though  with  compressed  lips  :  "  Dost  thou  then  love 
another? " 

The  blood  mounted  to  the  virgin's  cheeks,  it  suffused  her 
brow,  her  neck,  with  burning  blushes,  and  then  receding,  left 
her  face  colorless  as  a  statue.  Then  with  tones  low  and  con- 
strained as  his  own,  she  pressed  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and 
replied  :  "  Thou  sayest  it  ;  I  love  another." 

"And  that  other  is  Pausanias?  Alas,  thy  silence,  thy  trem- 
bling, answer  me." 

Antagoras  groaned  aloud  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands ;  but  after  a  short  pause,  he  exclaimed  with  great  emo- 
tion :  "  No,  no — say  not  that  thou  lovest  Pausanias  ;  say  not 
that  Aphrodite  hath  so  accurst  thee ;  for  to  love  Pausanias  is 
to  love  dishonor." 

"  Hold,  Chian  !  Not  so  :  for  my  love  has  no  hope.  Our 
hearts  are  not  our  own,  but  our  actions  are." 

Antagoras  gazed  on  her  with  suspense  and  awe  ;  for  as  she 
spoke  her  slight  form  dilated,  her  lip  curled,  her  cheek  glowed 
again,  but  with  the  blush  less  of  love  than  of  pride.  In  her 
countenance,  her  attitude,  there  was  something  divine  and  holy, 
such  as  would  have  beseemed  a  priestess  of  Diana. 

"  Yes,"  she  resumed,  raising  her  eyes,  and  with  a  still  and 
mournful  sweetness  in  her  upraised  features.  "  What  I  love 
is  not  Pausanias,  it  is  the  glory  of  which  he  is  the  symbol,  it  is 
the  Greece  of  which  he  has  been  the  Saviour.  Let  him  depart, 
as  soon  he  must — let  these  eyes  behold  him  no  more  ;  still 
there  exists  for  me  all  that  exists  now — a  name,  a  renown,  a 
dream.  Never  for  me  may  the  nuptial  hymn  resound,  or  the 
marriage  torch  be  illumined.  O  goddess  of  the  silver  bow,  O 
chaste  and  venerable  Artemis  !  receive,  protect  thy  servant ; 
and  ye,  O  funereal  gods,  lead  me  soon,  lead  the  virgin  unre- 
luctant  to  the  shades." 

A  superstitious  fear,  a  dread  as  if  his  earthly  love  would 
violate  something  sacred,  chilled  the  ardor  of  the  young  Chian  ; 
and  for  several  moments  both  were  silent. 

At  length,  Antagoras,  kissing  the  hem  of  her  robe,  said  : 

"  Maiden  of  Byzantium,  like  thee,  then,  I  will  love,  though 
without  hope.  I  will  not,  I  dare  not,  profane  thy  presence 
by  prayers  which  pain  thee,  and  seem  to  me,  having  heard 
thee,  almost  guilty,  as  if  proffered  to  some  nymph  circling  in 
choral  dance  the  moonlit  mountain-tops  of  Delos.  But  ere  I 
depart,  and  tell  thy  father  that  my  suit  is  over,  oh,  place  at 
least  thy  right  hand  in  mine,  and  swear  to  me,  not  the  bride's 
vow  of  faith  and  truth,  but  that  vow  which  a  virgin  sister  may 


80  PAUSAN'IAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

pledge  to  a  brother,  mindful  to  protect  and  to  avenge  her. 
Swear  to  me  that  if  this  haughty  Spartan,  contemning  alike  men, 
laws,  and  the  household  gods,  should  seek  to  constrain  thy 
purity  to  his  will ;  if  thou  shouldst  have  cause  to  tremble  at 
power  and  force;  and  fierce  desire  should  demand  what  gentle 
love  would  but  reverently  implore — then,  Cleonice,  seeing  how 
little  thy  father  can  defend  thee,  wilt  thou  remember  Antago- 
ras,  and,  through  him,  summon  around  thee  all  the  majesty  of 
Hellas?  Grant  me  but  this  prayer,  and  I  leave  thee,  if  in  sor- 
row, yet  not  with  terror." 

"Generous  and  noble  Chian,"  returned  Cleonice  as  her  tears 
fell  upon  the  hand  extended  to  her,  "  why,  why  do  I  so  ill 
repay  thee  ?  Thy  love  is  indeed  that  which  ennobles  the 
heart  that  yields  it,  and  her  who  shall  one  day  recompense  thee 
for  the  loss  of  me.  Fear  not  the  power  of  Pausanias  :  dream 
not  that  I  shall  need  a  defender,  while  above  us  reign  the  gods, 
and  below  us  lies'  the  grave.  Yet  to  appease  thee,  take  my 
right  hand,  and  hear  my  oath.  If  the  hour  comes  when  I  have 
need  of  man's  honor  against  man's  wrong,  I  will  call  on  Anta- 
goras  as  a  brother." 

Their  hands  closed  in  each  other  ;  and  not  trusting  himself 
to  speech,  Antagoras  turned  away  his  face,  and  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FOR  some  days  an  appearance  at  least  of  harmony  was 
restored  to  the  contending  factions  in  the  Byzantine  camp. 

Pausanias  did  not  dismiss  Gongylus  from  the  government  of 
the  city  ;  but  he  sent  one  by  one  for  the  more  important  of  the 
Ionian  complainants,  listened  to  their  grievances,  and  promised 
redress.  He  adopted  a  more  popular  and  gracious  demeanor, 
and  seemed,  with  a  noble  grace,  to  submit  to  the  policy  of  con- 
ciliating the  allies. 

But  discontent  arose  from  causes  beyond  his  power,  had  he 
genuinely  exerted  it,  to  remove.  For  it  was  a  discontent  that 
lay  in  the  hostility  of  race  to  race.  Though  the  Spartan 
Equals  had  preached  courtesy  to  the  lonians,  the  ordinary 
manner  of  the  Spartan  warriors  was  invariably  offensive  to  the 
vain  and  susceptible  confederates  of  a  more  polished  race.  A 
Spartan,  wherever  he  might  be  placed,  unconsciously  assumed 
superiority.  The  levity  of  an  Ionian  was  ever  displeasing  to 
him.  Out  of  the  actual  battle-fields,  they  could  have  no 
topics  in  common,  none  which  did  not  provoke  irritation  and 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN,  8l 

dispute.  On  the  other  hand,  most  of  the  lonians  could  ill 
conceal  their  disaffection,  mingled  with  something  of  just  con- 
tempt at  the  notorious  and  confessed  incapacity  of  the  Spartans 
for  maritime  affairs,  while  a  Spartan  was  yet  the  commander  of 
the  fleet.  And  many  of  them,  wearied  with  inaction,  and  anx- 
ious to  return  home,  were  willing  to  seize  any  reasonable  pre- 
text for  desertion.  In  this  last  motive  lay  the  real  strength 
and  safety  of  Pausanias.  And  to  this  end  his  previous  policy 
of  arrogance  was  not  so  idle  as  it  had  seemed  to  the  Greeks, 
and  appears  still  in  the  page  of  history.  For  a  Spartan 
really  anxious  to  preserve  the  pre-eminence  of  his  country, 
and  to  prevent  the  sceptre  of  the  seas  passing  to  Athens,  could 
have  devised  no  plan  of  action  more  sagacious  or  profound 
than  one  which  would  disperse  the  lonians,  and  the  Athenians 
themselves,  and  reduce  the  operations  of  the  Grecian  force  to 
that  land  warfare  in  which  the  Spartan  pre-eminence  was 
equally  indisputable  and  undisputed.  And  still  Pausanias, 
even  in  his  change  of  manner,  plotted  and  intrigued  and  hoped 
for  this  end.  Could  he  once  sever  from  the  encampment  the 
Athenians  and  the  Ionian  allies,  and  yet  remain  with  his  own 
force  at  Byzantium  until  the  Persian  army  could  collect  on  the 
Phrygian  frontier,  the  way  seemed  clear  to  his  ambition. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances,  in  this  object  he  might  have 
succeeded.  But  it  chanced  that  all  his  schemes  were  met  with 
invincible  mistrust  by  those  in  whose  interest  they  were  con- 
ceived, and  on  whose  co-operation  they  depended  for  success. 
The  means  adopted  by  Pausanias  in  pursuit  of  his  policy  were 
too  distasteful  to  the  national  prejudices  of  the  Spartan  gov- 
ernment to  elicit  from  the  national  ambition  of  that  govern- 
ment sufficient  sympathy  with  the  object  of  it.  The  more  he 
felt  himself  uncomprehended  and  mistrusted  by  his  country- 
men, the  more  personal  became  the  character,  and  the  more 
unscrupulous  the  course,  of  his  ambition.  Unhappily  for 
Pausanias,  moreover,  the  circumstances  which  chafed  his  pride 
also  thwarted  the  satisfaction  of  his  affections  ;  and  his  crim- 
inal ambition  was  stimulated  by  that  less  guilty  passion  which 
shared  with  it  the  mastery  of  a  singularly  turbulent  and  impet- 
uous soul.  Not  his  the  love  of  sleek,  gallant  and  wanton  youth  ; 
it  was  the  love  of  a  man  in  his  mature  years,  but  of  a  man  to 
whom  love  till  then  had  been  unknown.  In  that  large  and 
dark  and  stormy  nature  all  passions  once  admitted  took  the 
growth  of  Titans.  He  loved  as  those  long  lonely  at  heart  alone 
can  love  :  he  loved  as  love  the  unhappy  when  the  unfamiliar 
bliss  of  the  sweet  human  emotion  descends  like  dew  upon  the 


82  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPAR  ; 

desert.  To  him  Cleonice  was  a  creature  wholly  out  of  the  range 
of  experience.  Differing  in  every  shade  of  her  versatile 
humor  from  the  women  he  had  known,  the  simple,  sturdy, 
uneducated  maids  and  matrons  of  Sparta,  her  softness  en- 
thralled him,  her  anger  awed.  In  his  dreams  of  future  power, 
of  an  absolute  throne  and  unlimited  dominion,  Pausanias 
beheld  the  fair  Byzantine  crowned  by  his  side.  Fiercely  as  he 
loved,  and  little  as  the  sentiment  of  love  mingled  with  his/0J- 
sion,  he  yet  thought  not  to  dishonor  a  victim,  but  to  elevate  a 
bride.  What  though  the  laws  of  Sparta  were  against  such  nup- 
tials, was  not  the  hour  approaching  when  these  laws  should  be 
trampled  under  his  armed  heel  ?  Since  the  contract  with  the 
Persians,  which  Gongylus  assured  him  Xerxes  would  joyously 
and  promptly  fulfil,  Pausanias  already  felt,  in  a  soul  whose 
arrogance  arose  from  the  consciousness  of  powers  that  had  not 
yet  found  their  field,  as  if  he  were  not  the  subject  of  Sparta, 
but  her  lord  and  king.  In  his  interviews  with  Cleonice,  his  lan- 
guage took  a  tone  of  promise  and  of  hope  that  at  times  lulled  her 
fears,  and  communicated  its  sanguine  colorings  of  the  future  to 
her  own  dreams.  With  the  elasticity  of  youth,  her  spirits  rose 
from  the  solemn  despondency  with  which  she  had  replied  to 
the  reproaches  of  Antagoras.  For  though  Pausanias  spoke  not 
openly  of  his  schemes,  though  his  words  were  mysterious,  and 
his  replies  to  her  questions  ambiguous  and  equivocal,  still  it 
seemed  to  her,  seeing  in  him  the  hero  of  all  Hellas,  so  natural 
that  he  could  make  the  laws  of  Sparta  yield  to  the  weight  of 
his  authority,  or  relax  in  homage  to  his  renown,  that  she 
indulged  the  belief  that  his  influence  would  set  aside  the  iron 
customs  of  his  country.  Was  it  too  extravagant  a  reward  to 
the  conqueror  of  the  Mede  to  suffer  him  to  select  at  least  the 
partner  of  his  hearth  ?  No,  hope  was  not  dead  in  that  young 
breast.  Still  might  she  be  the  bride  of  him  whose  glory  had 
dazzled  her  noble  and  sensitive  nature,  till  the  faults  that  dark- 
ened it  were  lost  in  the  blaze.  Thus  insensibly  to  herself  her 
tones  became  softer  to  her  stern  lover,  and  her  heart  betrayed 
itself  more  in  her  gentle  looks.  Yet  again  were  there  times 
when  doubt  and  alarm  returned  with  more  than  their  earlier 
force — times  when,  wrapped  in  his  lurid  and  absorbing  ambi- 
tion, Pausanias  escaped  from  his  usual  suppressed  reserve — 
times  when  she  recalled  that  night  in  which  she  had  witnessed 
his  interview  with  the  strangers  of  the  East,  and  had  trembled 
lest  the  altar  should  be  kindled  upon  the  ruins  of  his  fame. 
For  Cleonice  was  wholly,  ardently,  sublimely  Greek,  filled  in 
each  crevice  of  her  soul  with  its  lovely  poetry,  its  beautiful 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  83 

superstition,  its  heroic  freedom.  As  Greek,  she  had  loved 
Pausanias,  seeing  in  him  the  lofty  incarnation  of  Greece  itself. 
The  descendant  of  the  demigod,  the  champion  of  Plataea,  the 
saviour  of  Hellas — theme  for  song  till  song  should  be  no  more — 
these  attributes  were  what  she  beheld  and  loved  ;  and  not  to 
have  reigned  by  his  side  over  a  world  would  she  have  welcomed 
one  object  of  that  evil  ambition  which  renounced  the  loyalty 
of  a  Greek  for  the  supremacy  of  a  king. 

Meanwhile,  though  Antagoras  had,  with  no  mean  degree  of 
generosity,  relinquished  his  suit  to  Cleonice,  he  detected  with 
a  jealous  vigilance  the  continued  visits  of  Pausanias,  and 
burned  with  increasing  hatred  against  his  favored  and  powerful 
rival.  Though,  in  common  with  all  the  Greeks  out  of  the  Pelo- 
ponnesus, he  was  very  imperfectly  acquainted  with  the  Spar- 
tan constitution,  he  could  not  be  blinded,  like  Cleonice,  into 
the  belief  that  a  law  so  fundamental  in  Sparta,  and  so  general 
in  all  the  primitive  States  of  Greece,  as  that  which  forbade  inter- 
marriage with  a  foreigner,  could  be  cancelled  for  the  Regent 
of  Sparta,  and  in  favor  of  an  obscure  maiden  of  Byzantium. 
Every  visit  Pausanias  paid  to  Cleonice  but  served  in  his  eyes 
as  a  prelude  to  her  ultimate  dishonor.  He  lent  himself,  there- 
fore, with  all  the  zeal  of  his  vivacious  and  ardent  character,  to 
the  design  of  removing  Pausanias  himself  from  Byzantium. 
He  plotted  with  the  implacable  Uliades  and  the  other  Ionian 
captains  to  send  to  Sparta  a  formal  mission  stating  their  griev- 
ances against  the  Regent,  and  urging  his  recall.  But  the 
altered  manner  of  Pausanias  deprived  them  of  their  just  pre- 
text ;  and  the  lonians,  more  and  more  under  the  influence  of  the 
Athenian  chief,  were  disinclined  to  so  extreme  a  measure  with- 
out the  consent  of  Aristides  and  Cimon.  These  two  chiefs 
were  not  passive  spectators  of  affairs  so  critical  to  their  ambi- 
tion for  Athens  ;  they  penetrated  into  the  motives  of  Pausanias 
in  the  novel  courtesy  of  demeanor  that  he  adopted,  and  they 
foresaw  that  if  he  could  succeed  in  wearing  away  the  patience 
of  the  allies  and  dispersing  the  fleet,  yet  without  giving  occa- 
sion for  his  own  recall,  the  golden  opportunity  of  securing  to 
Athens  the  maritime  ascendancy  would  be  lost.  They  re- 
solved, therefore,  to  make  the  occasion  which  the  wiles  of  the 
Regent  had  delayed  ;  and  towards  this  object  Antagoras,  moved 
by  his  own  jealous  hate  against  Pausanias,  worked  incessantly. 
Fearless  and  vigilant,  he  was  ever  on  the  watch  for  some  new 
charge  against  the  Spartan  chief,  ever  relentless  in  stimulating 
suspicion,  aggravating  discontent,  inflaming  the  fierce,  and 
arguing  with  the  timid.  His  less  exalted  station  allowed  him 


84  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

to  mix  more  familiarly  with  the  various  Ionian  officers  than 
would  have  become  the  high-born  Cimon,  and  the  dignified 
repute  of  Aristides.  Seeking  to  distract  his  mind  from  the 
haunting  thought  of  Cleonice,  he  flung  himself  with  the  ardor 
of  his  Gree,k  temperament  into  the  social  pleasures,  which  took 
a  zest  from  the  design  that  he  carried  into  them  all.  In  the 
banquets,  in  the  sports,  he  was  ever  seeking  to  increase  the 
enemies  of  his  rival,  and  where  he  charmed  a  gay  companion, 
there  he  often  enlisted  a  bold  conspirator. 

Pausanias,  the  unconscious  or  the  careless  object  of  the 
Ionian's  jealous  hate,  could  not  resist  the  fatal  charm  of  Cleo- 
nice's  presence  ;  and  if  it  sometimes  exasperated  the  more  evil 
elements  of  his  nature,  at  other  times  it  so  lulled  them  to  rest 
that  had  the  Fates  given  him  the  rightful  claim  to  that  single 
treasure,  not  one  guilty  thought  might  have  disturbed  the 
majesty  of  a  soul  which,  though  undisciplined  and  uncultured, 
owed  half  its  turbulence  and  half  its  rebellious  pride  to  its  baf- 
fled yearnings  for  human  affection  and  natural  joy.  And  Cleo- 
nice, unable  to  shun  the  visits  which  her  weak  and  covetous 
father,  despite  his  promised  favor  to  the  suit  of  Antagoras,  still 
encouraged  ;  and  feeling  her  honor,  at  least,  if  not  her  peace, 
was  secured  by  that  ascendancy  which,  with  each  successive 
interview  between  them,  her  character  more  and  more  asserted 
over  the  Spartan's  higher  nature,  relinquished  the  tormenting 
levity  of  tone  whereby  she  had  once  sought  to  elude  his  earn- 
estness, or  conceal  her  own  sentiments.  An  interest  in  a  fate 
so  solemn — an  interest  far  deeper  than  mere  human  love — stole 
into  her  heart  and  elevated  its  instincts.  She  recognized  the 
immense  compassion  which  was  due  to  the  man  so  desolate  at 
the  head  of  armaments,  so  dark  in  the  midst  of  glory.  Centu- 
ries roll,  customs  change,  but,  ever  since  the  time  of  the  earliest 
mother,  woman  yearns  to  be  the  soother. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IT  was  the  hour  of  the  day  when  between  the  two  principal 
meals  of  the  Greeks  men  surrendered  themselves  to  idleness  or 
pleasure  ;  when  groups  formed  in  the  market-place,  or  crowded 
the  barbers'  shops  to  gossip  and  talk  of  news  ;  when  the  tale- 
teller or  ballad-singer  collected  round  him  on  the  quays  his 
credulous  audience  ;  when  on  playgrounds  that  stretched  be- 
hind the  taverns  or  without  the  walls  the  more  active  youths 
assembled,  and  the  quoit  was  hurled,  or  mimic  battles  waged 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  .  85 

with  weapons  of  wood,  or  the  Dorians  weaved  their  simple,  the 
lonians  their  more  intricate  or  less  decorous,  dances.  At  that 
hour  Lysander,  wandering  from  the  circles  of  his  countrymen, 
walked  musingly  by  the  sea-shore. 

"  And  why,"  said  the  voice  of  a  person  who  had  approached 
him  unperceived  ;  "  And  why,  O  Lysander,  art  thou  absent 
from  thy  comrades,  thou  model  and  theme  of  the  youths  of 
Sparta,  foremost  in  their  manly  sports,  as  in  their  martial 
labors  ?" 

Lysander  turned  and  bowed  low  his  graceful  head,  for  he 
who  accosted  him  was  scarcely  more  honored  by  the  Athenians, 
whom  his  birth,  his  wealth,  and  his  popular  demeanor  dazzled, 
than  by  the  plain  sons  of  Sparta,  who,  in  his  simple  garb,  his 
blunt  and  hasty  manner,  his  professed  admiration  for  all  things 
Spartan,  beheld  one  Athenian  at  least  congenial  to  their  tastes. 

"The  child  that  misses  its  mother,"  answered  Lysander, 
"has  small  joy  with  its  playmates.  And  I,  a  Spartan,  pine  for 
Sparta." 

"  Truly,"  returned  Cimon,  "  there  must  be  charms  in  thy 
noble  country  of  which  we  other  Greeks  know  but  little,  if 
amidst  all  the  luxuries  and  delights  of  Byzantium  thou  canst 
pine  for  her  rugged  hills.  And  although,  as  thou  knowest 
well,  I  was  once  a  sojourner  in  thy  city  as  ambassador  from 
my  own,  yet  to  foreigners  so  little  of  the  inner  Spartan  life  i? 
revealed,  that  I  pray  thee  to  satisfy  my  curiosity  and  explain 
to  me  the  charm  that  reconciles  thee  and  thine  to  institutions 
which  seem  to  the  lonians  at  war  with  the  pleasures  and  the 
graces  of  social  life."  * 

"  111  can  the  native  of  one  land  explain  to  the  son  of  another 
why  he  loves  it,"  returned  Lysander.  "That  which  the  Ionian 
calls  pleasure  is  to  me  but  tedious  vanity ;  that  which  he.  calls 
grace  is  to  me  but  enervate  levity.  Me  it  pleases  to  find  the 
day,  from  sunrise  to  night,  full  of  occupations  that  leave  no 
languor  ;  that  employ,  but  not  excite.  For  the  morning,  our 
gymnasia,  our  military  games,  the  chase — diversions  that  brace 
the  limbs  and  leave  us  in  peace  fit  for  war — diversions,  which, 
unlike  the  brawls  of  the  wordy  Agora,  bless  us  with  the  calm 

*  Alexander,  King  of  Macedon,  had  visited  the  Athenians  with  overtures  of  peace  and 
alliance  from  Xerxes  and  Mardonius.  These  overtures  were  confined  to  the  Athenian* 
alone,  and  the  Spartans  were  fearful  lest  they  should  be  accepted.  The  Athenians,  how- 
ever, generously  refused  them.  Gold,  said  they,  hath  no  amount,  earth  no  territory  how 
beautiful  soever  that  could  tempt  the  Athenians  to  accept  conditions  from  the  Mede  for  the 
servitude  of  Greece.  On  this  the  Persians  invaded  Attica,  and  the  Athenians,  after  wail- 
ing in  vain  for  promised  aid  from  Spat ta,  took  refuge  at  Salamis.  Meanwhile,  they  hnd 
sent  messengers  or  ambassadors  to  Sparta,  to  remonstrate  on  the  violation  of  their  agree- 
ment in  delaying  succor.  This  chanced  at  the  very  time  when,  by  the  death  of  his  father 
Cleombrotus,  Pausanias  became  Regent.  Slowly,  and  after  much  hesitation,  the  Spartans 
sent  them  aid  under  Pausanias.  Two  of  the  ambassadors  wc-t  Aristides  and  Cimon, 


86  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

mind  and  clear  spirit  resulting  from  vigorous  habits,  and  ensur- 
ing jocund  health.  Noon  brings  our  simple  feast,  shared  in 
public,  enlivened  by  jest ;  late  at  eve  we  collect  in  our  Leschae, 
and  the  winter  nights  seem  short,  listening  to  the  old  men's 
talk  of  our  sires  and  heroes.  To  us  life  is  one  serene  yet  active 
holiday.  No  Spartan  condescends  to  labor,  yet  no  Spartan  can 
womanize  himself  by  ease.  For  us,  too,  differing  from  you 
Ionian  Greeks,  for  us  women  are  companions,  not  slaves. 
Man's  youth  is  passed  under  the  eyes  and  in  the  presence  of 
those  from  whom  he  may  select,  as  his  heart  inclines,  the  future 
mother  of  his  children.  Not  for  us  your  feverish  and  miserable 
ambitions,  the  intrigues  of  demagogues,  the  drudgery  of  the 
mart,  the  babble  of  the  populace  :  we  alone  know  the  quiet 
repose  of  heart.  That  which  I  see  everywhere  else,  the  gnaw- 
ing strife  of  passion,  visits  not  the  stately  calm  of  the  Spartan 
life.  We  have  the  leisure,  not  of  the  body  alone,  but  of  the 
soul.  Equality  with  us  is  the  all  in  all,  and  we  know  not  that 
jealous  anguish — the  desire  to  rise  one  above  the  other.  We 
busy  ourselves  not  in  making  wealth,  in  ruling  mobs,  in  osten- 
tatious rivalries  of  state,  and  gaud,  and  power — struggles  with- 
out an  object.  When  we  struggle  it  is  for  an  end.  Nothing 
moves  us  from  our  calm  but  danger  to  Sparta,  or  woe  to  Hellas. 
Harmony,  peace,  and  order — these  are  the  graces  of  our  social 
life.  Pity  us,  O  Athenian  !  " 

Cimon  had  listened  with  profound  attention  to  a  speech  unusu- 
ally prolix  and  descriptive  for  a  Spartan  ;  and  he  sighed  deeply 
as  it  closed.  For  that  young  Athenian,  destined  to  so  re- 
nowned a  place  in  the  history  of  his  country,  was,  despite  his 
popular  manners,  no  favorer  of  the  popular  passions.  Lofty 
and  calm,  and  essentially  an  aristocrat  by  nature  and  opinion, 
this  picture  of  a  life  unruffled  by  the  restless  changes  of 
democracy,  safe  and  aloof  from  the  shifting  humors  of  the 
multitude,  charmed  and  allured  him.  He  forgot  for  a  moment 
those  counter-propensities  which  made  him  still  Athenian — 
the  taste  for  magnificence,  the  love  of  women,  and  the  desire 
of  rule.  His  busy  schemes  slept  within  him,  and  he  answered  : 

"  Happy  is  the  Spartan  who  thinks  with  you.  Yet,"  he 
added,  after  a  pause,  "  yet  own  that  there  are  amongst  you 
many  to  whom  the  life  you  describe  has  ceased  to  proffer  the 
charms  that  enthrall  you,  and  who  envy  the  more  diversified 
and  exciting  existence  of  surrounding  States.  Lysander's 
eulogiums  shame  his  chief  Pausanias." 

"  It  is  not  for  me,  nor  for  thee,  whose  years  scarce  exceed 
my  own,  to  judge  of  our  elders  in  renown,"  said  Lysander, 


tAUSANIAS,    THfc   SPARTAN.  87 

with  a  slight  shade  over  his  calm  brow.  "  Pausanias  will  surely 
be  found  still  a  Spartan,  when  Sparta  needs  him  ;  and  the 
heart  of  the  Heracleid  beats  under  the  robe  of  the  Mede." 

"  Be  frank  with  me,  Lysander  ;  thou  knowest  that  my  own 
countrymen  often  jealously  accuse  me  of  loving  Sparta  too 
well.  I  imitate,  say  they,  the  manners  and  dress  of  the  Spar- 
tan, as  Pausanias  those  of  the  Mede.  Trust  me  then,  and 
bear  with  me,  when  I  say  that  Pausanias  ruins  the  cause  of 
Sparta.  If  he  tarry  here  longer  in  the  command  he  will  render 
all  the  allies  enemies  to  thy  country.  Already  he  has  impaired 
his  fame  and  dimmed  his  laurels  ;  already,  despite  his  pretexts 
and  excuses,  we  perceive  that  his  whole  nature  is  corrupted. 
Recall  him  to  Sparta,  while  it  is  yet  time — time  to  reconcile  the 
Greeks  with  Sparta,  time  to  save  the  hero  of  Platsea  from  the 
contaminations  of  the  East.  Preserve  his  own  glory,  dearer 
to  thee  as  his  special  friend  than  to  all  men,  yet  dear  to  me, 
though  an  Athenian,  from  the  memory  of  the  deeds  which 
delivered  Hellas." 

Cimon  spoke  with  the  blunt  and  candid  eloquence  natural 
to  him,  and  to  which  his  manly  countenance  and  earnest  tone 
and  character  for  truth  gave  singular  effect. 

Lysander  remained  long  silent.  At  length  he  said  :  "  I 
neither  deny  nor  assent  to  thine  arguments,  son  of  Miltiades. 
The  Ephors  alone  can  judge  of  their  wisdom." 

"  But  if  we  address  them,  by  message,  to  the  Ephors,  thou  and 
the  nobler  Spartans  will  not  resent  our  remonstrances  ?  " 

"All  that  injures  Pausanias  Lysander  will  resent.  Little 
know  I  of  the  fables  of  poets,  but  Homer  is  at  least  as  familiar  to 
the  Dorian  as  to  the  Ionian,  and  I  think  with  him  that  between 
friends  there  is  but  one  love  and  one  anger." 

"  Then  are  the  frailties  of  Pausanias  dearer  to  thee  than  his 
fame,  or  Pausanias  himself  dearer  to  thee  than  Sparta — the 
erring  brother  than  the  venerable  mother?  " 

Lysander's  voice  died  on  his  lips ;  the  reproof  struck  home 
to  him.  He  turned  away  his  face,  and  with  a  slow  wave  of  his 
hand  seemed  to  implore  forbearance.  Cimon  was  touched  by 
the  action  and  the  generous  embarrassment  of  the  Spartan  ;  he 
saw,  too,  that  he  had  left  in  the  mind  he  had  addressed 
thoughts  that  might  work  as  he  had  designed,  and  he  judged 
by  the-effect  produced  on  Lysander  what  influence  the  same 
arguments  might  effect  addressed  to  others  less  under  the  con- 
trol of  personal  friendship.  Therefore,  with  a  few  gentle  words, 
he  turned  aside,  continued  his  way,  and  left  Lysander  alone. 

Entering  the  town,  the  Athenian  threaded  his  path  through 


PAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

some  of  the  narrow  lanes  and  alleys  that  wound  from  the  quays 
towards  the  citadel,  avoiding  the  broader  and  more  frequented 
streets.  The  course  he  took  was  such  as  rendered  it  little 
probable  that  lie  should  encounter  any  of  the  higher  classes, 
and  especially  the  Spartans,  who  from  their  constitutional  pride 
shunned  the  resorts  of  the  populace.  But  as  he  came  nearer 
the  citadel  stray  Helots  were  seen  at  times,  emerging  from  the 
inns  and  drinking-houses,  and  these  stopped  short  and  in- 
clined low  if  they  caught  sight  of  him  at  a  distance,  for  his 
hat  and  staff,  his  majestic  stature,  and  composed  step  made 
them  take  him  for  a  Spartan. 

One  of  these  slaves,  however,  emerging  suddenly  from  a 
house  close  by  which  Cimon  passed,  recognized  him,  and  re- 
treating within  abruptly,  entered  a  room  in  which  a  man  sat  alone, 
and  seemingly  in  profound  thought ;  his  cheek  rested  on  one 
hand  ;  with  the  other  he  leaned  upon  a  small  lyre  ;  his  eyes 
were  bent  on  the  ground,  and  he  started,  as  a  man  does  dream- 
like from  a  reverie,  when  the  Helot  touched  him  and  said 
abruptly,  and  in  a  tone  of  surprise  and  inquiry  : 

"Cimon,  the  Athenian,  is  ascending  the  hill  towards  the 
Spartan  quarter." 

"  The  Spartan  quarter !  Cimon  !  "  exclaimed  Alcman,  for 
it  was  he.  "Give  me  thy  cap  and  hide." 

Hastily  enduing  himself  in  these  rough  garments,  and  draw- 
ing the  cap  over  his  face,  the  Mothon  hurried  to  the  threshold, 
and,  seeing  the  Athenian  at  a  distance,  followed  his  foot- 
steps, though  with  the  skill  of  a  man  used  to  ambush  he  kept 
himself  unseen — now  under  the  projecting  roofs  of  the  houses, 
now  skirting  the  wall,  which,  heavy  with  buttresses,  led  towards 
the  outworks  of  the  citadel.  And  with  such  success  did  he 
pursue  his  track  that  when  Cimon  paused  at  last  at  the  place 
of  his  destination,  and  gave  one  vigilant  and  searching  glance 
around  him,  he  detected  no  living  form. 

He  had  then  reached  a  small  space  of  tableland  on  which 
stood  a  few  trees  of  great  age — all  that  time  and  the  encroach- 
ments of  the  citadel  and  the  town  had  spared  of  the  sacred 
grove  which  formerly  surrounded  a  rude  and  primitive  temple, 
the  gray  columns  of  which  gleamed  through  the  heavy  foliage. 
Passing  with  a  slow  and  cautious  step,  under  the  thick  shadow 
of  these  trees,  Cimon  now  arrived  before  the  open  door  of 
the  temple,  placed  at  the  east  so  as  to  admit  the  first  beams 
of  the  rising  sun.  Through  the  threshold,  in  the  middle 
of  the  fane,  the  eye  rested  on  the  statue  of  Apollo,  raised  upon 
a  lofty  pedestal  and  surrounded  by  a  rail — a  statue  not  such  as 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  89 

the  later  genius  of  the  Athenian  represented  the  god  of  light, 
and  youth,  and  beauty  ;  not  wrought  from  Parian  marble,  or 
smoothest  ivory,  and  in  the  divinest  proportions  of  the  human 
form,  but  rude,  formal,  and  roughly  hewn,  from  the  wood  of 
the  yew-tree — some  early  effigy  of  the  god,  made  by  the  simple 
piety  of  the  first  Dorian  colonizers  of  Byzantium.  Three 
forms  stood  mute  by  an  altar,  equally  homely  and  ancient,  and 
adorned  with  horns,  placed  a  little  apart,  and  considerably 
below  the  stature. 

As  the  shadow  of  the  Athenian,  who  halted  at  the  threshold, 
fell  long  and  dark  along  the  floor,  the  figures  turned  slowly, 
and  advanced  towards  him.  With  an  inclination  of  his  head 
Cimon  retreated  from  the  temple  ;  and,  looking  round,  saw 
abutting  from  the  rear  of  the  building  a  small  cell  or  chamber, 
which  doubtless  in  former  times  had  served  some  priestly  pur- 
pose, but  now,  doorless,  empty,  desolate,  showed  the  utter 
neglect  into  which  the  ancient  shrine  of  the  Dorian  god  had 
fallen  amidst  the  gay  and  desolate  Byzantians.  To  this  cell 
Cimon  directed  his  steps  ;  the  men  he  had  seen  in  the  temple 
followed  him,  and  all  four,  with  brief  and  formal  greeting, 
seated  themselves,  Cimon  on  a  fragment  of  some  broken 
column,  the  others  on  a  bench  that  stretched  along  the  wall. 

"Peers  of  Sparta,"  said  the  Athenian,  "ye  have  doubtless 
ere  this  revolved  sufficiently  the  grave  matter  which  I  opened 
to  you  in  a  former  conference,  and  in  which,  to  hear  your 
decision,  I  seek  at  your  appointment  these  sacred  precincts." 

"  Son  of  Miltiades,"  answered  the  blunt  Polydorus,  "  you 
inform  us  that  it  is  the  intention  of  the  Athenians  to  despatch 
a  messenger  to  Sparta  demanding  the  instant  recall  of  Pau- 
sanias.  You  ask  us  to  second  that  request.  But  without  our 
aid  the  Athenians  are  masters  to  do  as  they  will.  Why  should 
we  abet  your  quarrel  against  the  Regent  ?  " 

"  Friend,"  replied  Cimon,  "  we,  the  Athenians,  confess  to  no 
quarrel  with  Pausanias  ;  what  we  demand  is  to  avoid  all 
quarrel  with  him  or  yourselves.  You  seem  to  have  overlooked 
my  main  arguments.  Permit  me  to  re-urge  them  briefly.  If 
Pausanias  remains,  the  allies  have  resolved  openly  to  revolt ; 
if  you,  the  Spartans,  assist  your  chief,  as  methinks  you  needs 
must  do,  you  are  at  once  at  war  with  the  rest  of  the  Greeks. 
If  you  desert  him  you  leave  Hellas  without  a  chief,  and  we 
will  choose  one  of  our  own.  Meanwhile,  in  the  midst  of  our 
dissensions,  the  towns  and  states  well  affected  to  Persia  will 
return  to  her  sway  ;  and  Persia  herself  falls  upon  us  as  no 
longer  an  united  enemy  but  an  easy  prey.  For  the  sake, 


90  PAUSANIAS,  THE  SPARTAN. 

therefore,  of  Sparta  and  of  Greece,  we  entreat  you  to  co-oper- 
ate with  us  ;  or  rather,  to  let  the  recall  of  Pausanias  be  effected 
more  by  the  wise  precaution  of  the  Spartans  than  by  the 
fierce  resolve  of  the  other  Greeks.  So  you  save  best  the  dig- 
nity of  your  State,  and  so,  in  reality,  you  best  serve  your  chief. 
For  less  shameful  to  him  is  it  to  be  recalled  by  you  than  to  be 
deposed  by  us." 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Gelon,  surlily,  "  what  Sparta  hath  to  do 
at  all  with  this  foreign  expedition  ;  we  are  safe  in  our  own 
defiles." 

"  Pardon  me,  if  I  remind  you  that  you  were  scarcely  safe  at 
Thermopylae,  and  that  had  the  advice  Demaratus  proffered  to 
Xerxes  been  taken,  and  that  island  of  Cithera,  which  com- 
mands Sparta  itself,  been  occupied  by  Persian  troops,  as  in  a 
future  time,  if  Sparta  desert  Greece,  it  may  be,  you  were 
undone.  And,  wisely  or  not,  Sparta  is  now  in  command  at 
Byzantium,  and  it  behoves  her  to  maintain,  with  the  dignity 
she  assumes,  the  interests  she  represents.  Grant  that  Pau- 
sanias be  recalled,  another  Spartan  can  succeed  him.  Whom 
of  you  countrymen  would  you  prefer  to  that  high  post,  if  you, 
O  Peers,  aid  us  in  the  dismissal  of  Pausanias  ?  "  * 


BOOK  III. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THE  fountain  sparkled  to  the  noonday,  the  sward  around  it 
was  sheltered  from  the  sun  by  vines  formed  into  shadowy 
arcades,  with  interlaced  leaves  for  roof.  Afar  through  the 
vistas  thus  formed  gleamed  the  blue  of  a  sleeping  sea. 

Under  the  hills,  or  close  by  the  margin  of  the  fountain, 
Cleonice  was  seated  upon  a  grassy  knoll,  covered  with  wild 
flowers.  Behind  her,  at  a  little  distance,  grouped  her  hand- 
maids, engaged  in  their  womanly  work,  and  occasionally  con- 
versing in  whispers.  At  her  feet  reposed  the  grand  form  of 
Pausanias.  Alcman  stood  not  far  behind  him,  his  hand  resting 
on  his  lyre,  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  upward  jet  of  the  foun.tain. 

*  This  chapter  was  left  unfinished  by  the  author  ;  probably  with  the  intention  of  re- 
casting it.  Such  an  intention,  at  least,  is  indicated  by  the  marginal  marks  upon  the 
MS.— L. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  9! 

"Behold,"  said  Cleonice,  "how  the  water  soars  up  to  the 
level  of  its  source  !  " 

"  As  my  soul  would  soar  to  thy  love,"  said  the  Spartan  amo- 
rously. 

"As  thy  soul  should  soar  to  the  stars.  O  son  of  Hercules, 
when  I  hear  thee  burst  into  thy  wild  flights  of  ambition,  I  see 
not  thy  way  to  the  stars." 

"Why  dost  thou  ever  thus  chide  the  ambition  which  may 
give  me  thee  ?  " 

"  No,  for  thou  mightest  then  be  as  much  below  me  as  thou 
art  now  above.  Too  humble  to  mate  with  the  Heracleid,  I  am 
too  proud  to  stoop  to  the  Tributary  of  the  Mede." 

"  Tributary  for  a  sprinkling  of  water  and  a  handful  of  earth. 
Well,  my  pride  may  revolt,  too,  from  that  tribute.  But,  alas  ! 
what  is  the  tribute  Sparta  exacts  from  me  now  ? — personal 
liberty — freedom  of  soul  itself.  The  Mede's  Tributary  may  be 
a  king  over  millions  ;  the  Spartan  Regent  is  a  slave  to  the 
few." 

"  Cease — cease — cease.  I  will  not  hear  thee,"  cried  Cleo- 
nice, placing  her  hands  on  her  ears. 

Pausanias  gently  drew  them  away  ;  and  holding  them  both 
captive  in  the  large  clasp  of  his  own  right  hand,  gazed  eagerly 
into  her  pure,  unshrinking  eyes. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  "  for  in  much  thou  art  wiser  than  I  am, 
unjust  though  thou  art.  Tell  me  this.  Look  onward  to  the 
future  with  a  gaze  as  steadfast  as  now  meets  mine,  and  say  if 
thou  canst  discover  any  path,  except  that  which  it  pleases  thee 
to  condemn,  which  may  lead  thee  and  me  to  the  marriage 
altar  ! " 

Down  sank  those  candid  eyes,  and  the  virgin's  cheek  grew 
first  rosy  red,  and  then  pale,  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  had 
receded  to  the  heart. 

"  Speak  !  "  insisted  Pausanias,  softening  his  haughty  voice  to 
its  meekest  tone. 

"  I  cannot  see  the  path  to  the  altar,"  murmured  Cleonice, 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks. 

"And  if  thou  seest  it  not,"  returned  Pausanias,  "art  thou 
brave  enough  to  say — Be  we  lost  to  each  other  for  life?  I, 
though  man  and  Spartan,  am  not  brave  enough  to  say  that !  " 

He  released  her  hands  as  he  spoke,  and  clasped  his  own  over 
his  face.  Both  were  long  silent. 

Alcman  had  for  some  moments  watched  the  lovers  with  deep 
interest,  and  had  caught  into  his  listening  ears  the  purport  of 
their  words.  He  now  raised  his  lyre,  and  swept  his  hand  over 


9*  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

the  chords.  The  touch  was  that  of  a  master,  and  the  musical 
sounds  produced  their  effect  on  all.  The  handmaids  paused 
from  their  work.  Cleonice  turned  her  eyes  wistfully  towards 
the  Mothon.  Pausanias  drew  his  hands  from  his  face,  and 
cried  joyously :  :'  I  accept  the  omen.  Foster-brother,  I  have 
heard  that  measure  to  a  Hymeneal  Song.  Sing  us  the  words 
that  go  with  the  melody." 

"Nay,"  said  Alcman  gently,  "  the  words  are  not  those  which 
are  sung  before  youth  and  maiden  when  they  walk  over  perish- 
ing flowers  to  bridal  altars.  They  are  the  words  which  embody 
a  legend  of  the  land  in  which  the  heroes  of  old  dwell,  removed 
from  earth,  yet  preserved  from  Hades." 

"Ah,"  said  Cleonice — and  a  strange  expression,  calmly 
mournful,  settled  on  her  features — "then  the  words  may  haply 
utter  my  own  thoughts.  Sing  them  to  us,  I  pray  thee." 

The  Mothon  bowed  his  head,  and  thus  began  : 

THE  ISLE  OF  SPIRITS. 

Many  wonders  on  the  ocean 

By  the  moonlight  may  be  seen  ; 
Under  moonlight  on  the  Euxine 

Rose  the  blessed  silver  isle, 

As  Leostratus  of  Croton, 

At  the  Pythian  God's  behest, 
Steer'd  along  the  troubled  waters 

To  the  tranquil  spirit  land. 

In  the  earthquake  of  the  battle, 

When  the  Locrians  reel'd  before 
Croton's  shock  of  marching  iron, 

Strode  a  Phantom  to  their  van  : 

Strode  the  shade  of  Locrian  Ajax, 

Guarding  still  the  native  soil, 
And  Leostratus,  confronting, 

Wounded  fell  before  the  spear. 

Leech  and  herb  the  wound  could  heal  not ; 

Said  the  Pythian  God,  "  Depart, 
Voyage  o'er  the  troubled  Euxine 

To  the  tranquil  spiiii  land. 

"  There  abides  the  Locrian  Ajax, 

He  who  gave  the  wound  shall  heal ; 
Godlike  souls  are  in  their  mercy 

Stronger  yet  than  in  their  wrath." 

While  at  ease  on  lulled  waters 

Rose  the  blessed  silver  isle, 
Purple  vines  in  lengthening  vistas 

Knit  the  hill-top  to  the  beach, 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  93 

And  the  beach  had  sparry  caverns, 

And  a  floor  of  golden  sands, 
And  wherever  soared  the  cypress, 

Underneath  it  bloomed  the  rose. 

Glimmered  there  amid  the  vine  trees, 

Thoro'  cavern,  over  beach, 
Lifelike  shadows  of  a  beauty 

Which  the  living  know  no  more, 

Towering  sfatues  of  great  heroes, 

They  who  fought  at  Thebes  and  Troy  ; 
And  with  looks  that  poets  dream  of 

Beam'd  the  women  heroes  loved. 

Kingly,  forth  before  their  comrades, 

As  the  vessel  touch'd  the  shore, 
Came  the  stateliest  Two,  by  Hymen 

Ever  hallowed  into  One. 

As  He  strode,  the  forests  trembled 

To  the  awe  that  crowned  his  brow: 
As  She  stepped,  the  ocean  dimpled 

To  the  ray  that  left  her  smile. 

"  Welcome  hither,  fearless  warrior  ! " 

Said  a  voice  in  which  there  slept 
Thunder-sounds  to  scatter  armies, 

As  a  north-wind  scatters  leaves. 

"  Welcome  hither,  wounded  sufferer, 

Said  a  voice  of  music  low 
As  the  coo  of  doves  that  nestle 

Under  summer  boughs  at  noon. 

"  Who  are  ye,  O  shapes  of  glory  ?" 

Ask'd  the  wondering  living  man  : 
Quoth  the  Man-ghost,  "  This  is  Helen, 

And  the  Fair  is  for  the  Brave. 

"  Fairest  prize  to  bravest  victor  ; 

Whom  doth  Greece  her  bravest  deem  ?" 
Said  Leostratus,  "  Achilles"  : 

"  Bride  and  bridegroom  then  are  we." 

"  Low  I  kneel  to  thee,  Pelides, 

But,  O  marvel,  she  thy  bride, 
She  whose  guilt  unpeopled  Hellas, 

She  whose  marriage  lights  fired  Troy?" 

Frown'd  the  large  front  of  Achilles, 

Overshadowing  sea  and  sky, 
Even  as  when  between  Olympus 

And  Oceanus  hangs  storm. 

"  Know,  thou  dullard,"  said  Pelides 

"  That  on  the  funereal  pyre 
Earthly  sins  are  purged  from  glory. 

And  the  Soul  is  as  the  Name," 


94  PAUSANIAS,    THK    SPARTAN. 

If  to  her  in  life — a  Paris, 

If  lo  me  in  life — a  slave, 
Helen's  mate  is  here  Achilles. 

Mine — the  sister  of  the  stars. 

Nought  of  her  survives  but  beauty, 

Nought  of  me  survives  but  fame ; 
Here  the  Beautiful  and  Famous 

Intermingle  evermore. 

Then  throughout  the  Blessed  Island 

Sang  aloud  ihe  Race  of  Light, 
"  Know,  the  Beautiful  and  Famous 

Marry  here  for  evermore  !  " 

"Thy  song  bears  a  meaning  deeper  than  its  words,"  said 
Pausanias  ;  "  but  if  that  meaning  be  consolation,  I  comprehend 
it  not." 

"  I  do,"  said  Cleonice.  "  Singer,  I  pray  thee  draw  near. 
Let  us  talk  of  what  my  lost  mother  said  was  the  favorite  theme 
of  the  grander  sages  of  Miletus.  Let  us  talk  of  what  lies  afa* 
and  undiscovered  amid  waters  more  troubled  than  the  Euxine. 
Let  us  speak  of  the  Land  of  Souls." 

"  Who  ever  returned  from  that  land  to  tell  us  of  it  ? "  said 
Pausanias.  "Voyagers  that  never  voyaged  thither  save  in 
song." 

"  Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  said  Alcman,  "hast  thou  not  heard 
that  in  one  of  the  cities  founded  by  thine  ancestor,  Hercules, 
and  named  after  his  own  name,  there  yet  dwells  a  Priesthood 
than  can  summon  to  living  eyes  the  Phantoms  of  the  Dead?" 

"  No,"  answered  Pausanias,  with  the  credulous  wonder  com- 
mon to  eager  natures  which  Philosophy  has  not  withdrawn 
from  the  realm  of  superstition. 

"  But,"  asked  Cleonice,  "  does  it  need  the  Necromancer  to 
convince  us  that  the  soul  does  not  perish  when  the  breath 
leaves  the  lips  ?  If  I  judge  the  burthen  of  thy  song  aright, 
thou  art  not,  O  singer,  uninitiated  in  the  divine  and  consoling 
doctrines  which,  emanating,  it  is  said,  from  the  schools  of 
Miletus,  establish  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  not  for  Demi- 
gods and  Heroes  only,  but  for  us  all  ;  which  imply  the  soul's 
purification  from  earthly  sins,  in  some  regions  less  chilling  and 
stationary  than  the  sunless  and  melancholy  Hades." 

Alcman  looked  at  the  girl  surprised. 

"Art  thou  not,  maiden,"  said  he,  "one  of  the  many  female 
disciples  whom  the  successors  of  Pythagoras  the  Samian  have 
enrolled  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  said  Cleonice,  modestly ;  "  but  my  mother  had 
listened  to  great  teachers  of  wisdom,  and  I  speak  imperfectly 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  95 

the  thoughts  I  have  heard  her  utter  when  she  told  me  she  had 
no  terror  of  the  grave." 

"  Fair  Byzantine,"  returned  the  Mothon,  while  Pausanias, 
leaning  his  upraised  face  on  his  hand,  listened  mutely  to 
themes  new  to  his  mind  and  foreign  to  his  Spartan  culture. 
"  Fair  Byzantine,  we  in  Lacedsemon,  whether  free  or  enslaved, 
are  not  educated  to  the  subtle  learning  which  distinguishes  the 
intellect  of  Ionian  Sages.  But  I,  born  and  licensed  to  be  a 
poet,  converse  eagerly  with  all  who  swell  the  stores  which 
enrich  the  treasure-house  of  song.  And  thus,  since  we  have 
left  the  land  of  Sparta,  and  more  especially  in  yon  city,  the 
centre  of  many  tribes  and  of  many  minds,  I  have  picked  up,  as 
it  were,  desultory  and  scattered  notions,  which,  for  want  of  a 
fitting  teacher,  I  bind  and  arrange  for  myself  as  well  as  I  may. 
And  since  the  ideas  that  now  float  through  the  atmosphere  of 
Hellas  are  not  confined  to  the  great,  nay,  perhaps  are  less  visible 
to  them  than  to  those  whose  eyes  are  not  riveted  on  the 
absorbing  substances  of  ambition  and  power,  so  1  have  learned 
something,  I  know  not  how,  save  that  I  have  listened  and 
reflected.  And  here,  where  I  have  heard  what  sages  con- 
jecture of  a  world  which  seems  so  far  off,  but  to  which  we  are 
so  near  that  we  may  reach  it  in  a  moment,  my  interest  might 
indeed  be  intense.  For  what  is  this  world  to  him  who  came 
into  it  a  slave  ?  " 

"Alcman,"  exclaimed  Pausanias,  "the  foster-brother  of  the 
Heracleid  is  no  more  a  slave." 

The  Mothon  bowed  his  head  gratefully,  but  the  expression 
on  his  face  retained  the  same  calm  and  sombre  resignation. 

"Alas,"  said  Cleonice,  with  the  delicacy  of  female  consola- 
tion, "  who  in  this  life  is  really  free  ?  Have  citizens  no 
thraldom  in  custom  and  law  ?  Are  we  not  all  slaves  ?  " 

"  True.  All  slaves  !  "  murmured  the  royal  victor.  "  Envy 
none,  O  Alcman.  Yet,"  he  continued  gloomily,  "  what  is  the 
life  beyond  the  grave  which  sacred  tradition  and  ancient  song 
hold  out  to  us  ?  Not  thy  silver  island,  vain  singer,  unless  it  be 
only  for  an  early  race  more  immediately  akin  to  the  Gods. 
Shadows  in  the  shade  are  the  dead  ;  at  the  best  reviving  only 
their  habits  when  on  earth,  in  phantom-like  delusions  ;  aiming 
spectral  darts  like  Orion  at  spectral  lions ;  things  bloodless  and 
pulseless  ;  existences  followed  to  no  purpose  through  eternity, 
as  dreams  are  through  a  night.  Who  cares  so  to  live  again  ? 
Not  I." 

"  The  sages  that  now  rise  around,  and  speak  oracles  different 
from  those  heard  at  Delphi,"  said  Alcman,  "treat  not  thus  the 


96  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

Soul's  immortality.  They  begin  by  inquiring  how  creation 
rose  ;  they  seek  to  find  the  primitive  element ;  what  that  may 
be  they  dispute  ;  some  say  the  fiery,  some  the  airy,  some  the 
ethereal  element.  Their  language  here  is  obscure.  But  it  is 
a  something  which  forms,  harmonizes,  works,  and  lives  on 
forever.  And  of  that  something  is  the  Soul ;  creative,  har- 
monious, active,  an  element  in  itself.  Out  of  its  development 
here,  that  soul  comes  on  to  a  new  development  elsewhere.  If 
here  the  beginning  lead  to  that  new  development  in  what  we 
call  virtue,  it  moves  to  light  and  joy — if  it  can  only  roll  on 
through  the  grooves  it  has  here  made  for  itself,  in  what  we  call 
vice  and  crime,  its  path  is  darkness  and  wretchedness." 

"  In  what  we  call  virtue — what  we  call  vice  and  crime  ? 
Ah,"  said  Pausanias,  with  a  stern  sneer,  "  Spartan  virtue,  O 
Alcman,  is  what  a  Helot  may  call  crime.  And  if  ever  the 
Helot  rose  and  shouted  freedom,  would  he  not  say,  This  is 
virtue  ?  Would  the  Spartan  call  it  virtue,  too,  my  foster- 
brother  ?" 

"Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  answered  Alcman,  "it  is  not  for  me 
to  vindicate  the  acts  of  the  master  ;  nor  to  blame  the  slave  who 
is  of  my  race.  Yet  the  sage  definers  of  virtue  distinguish 
between  the  Conscience  of  a  Polity  and  that  of  the  Individual 
Man.  Self-preservation  is  the  instinct  of  every  community, 
and  all  the  ordinances  ascribed  to  Lycurgus  are  designed  to 
preserve  the  Spartan  existence.  For  what  are  the  pure  Spartan 
race  ?  A  handful  of  men  established  as  lords  in  the  midst  of  a 
hostile  population.  Close  by  the  eyrie  thine  eagle  fathers  built 
in  the  rocks,  hung  the  silent  Amyclae,  a  city  of  foes  that  cost 
the  Spartans  many  generations  to  subdue.  Hence  thy  State 
was  a  camp,  its  citizens  sentinels  ;  its  children  were  brought 
up  from  the  cradle  to  support  the  stern  life  to  which  necessity 
devoted  the  men.  Hardship  and  privation  were  second  nature. 
Not  enough  to  be  brave  ;  vigilance  was  equally  essential. 
Every  Spartan  life  was  precious  ;  therefore  came  the  cunning 
which  characterizes  the  Spartan  ;  therefore  the  boy  is  permitted 
to  steal,  but  punished  if  detected  ;  therefore  the  whole  Com- 
monwealth strives  to  keep  aloof  from  the  wars  of  Greece  unless 
itself  be  threatened.  A  single  battle  in  a  common  cause  might 
suffice  to  depopulate  the  Spartan  race,  and  leave  it  at  the 
mercy  of  the  thousands  that  so  reluctantly  own  its  dominion. 
Hence  the  ruthless  determination  to  crush  the  spirit,  to  degrade 
the  class  of  the  enslaved  Helots  ;  hence  its  dread  lest  the 
slumbering  brute  force  of  the  Servile  find  in  its  own  masses  a 
head  to  teach  the  consciousness,  and  a  hand  to  guide  the 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  97 

movements,  of  its  power.  These  are  the  necessities  of  the 
Polity  ;  its  vices  are  the  outgrowth  of  its  necessities  ;  and  the 
life  that  so  galls  thee,  and  which  has  sometimes  rendered  mad 
those  who  return  to  it  from  having  known  another,  and  the 
danger  that  evermore  surrounds  the  lords  of  a  sullen  multitude, 
are  the  punishments  of  these  vices.  Comprehendest  thou  ? " 

"  I  comprehend." 

"  But  individuals  have  a  conscience  apart  from  that  of  the 
Community.  Every  community  has  its  errors  in  its  laws. 
No  human  laws,  how  skilfully  soever  framed,  but  give  to  a 
national  character  defects  as  well  as  merits,  merits  as  well  as 
defects.  Craft,  selfishness,  cruelty  to  the  subdued,  inhospi- 
table frigidity  to  neighbors,  make  the  defects  of  the  Spartan 
character.  "  But,"  added  Alcman,  with  a  kind  of  reluctant 
anguish  in  his  voice,  "  the  character  has  its  grand  virtues,  too, 
or  would  the  Helots  not  be  the  masters  ?  Valor  indomitable  ; 
grand  scorn  of  death  ;  passionate  ardor  for  the  State  which  is 
so  severe  a  mother  to  them  ;  antique  faith  in.  the  sacred  altars  ; 
sublime  devotion  to  what  is  held  to  be  duty.  Are  these  not 
found  in  the  Spartan  beyond  all  the  Greeks,  as  thou  seest  them 
in  thy  friend  Lysander  ;  in  that  soul,  stately,  pure,  compact  in 
its  own  firm  substance  as  a  statue  within  a  temple  is  in  its 
Parian  stone  ?  But  what  the  Gods  ask  from  man  is  virtue  in 
himself,  according  as  he  comprehends  it.  And,  therefore,  here 
all  societies  are  equal  ;  for  the  Gods  pardon  in  the  man  the 
faults  he  shares  with  his  Community,  and  ask  from  him  but 
the  good  and  the  beautiful,  such  as  the  nature  of  his  Commu- 
nity will  permit  him  to  conceive  and  to  accomplish.  Thou 
knowest  that  there  are  many  kinds  of  music — for,  instance, 
the  Doric,  the  ^Eolian,  the  Ionian — in  Hellas.  The  Lydians 
have  their  music,  the  Phrygians  theirs  too.  The  Scyth  and  the 
Mede  doubtless  have  their  own.  Each  race  prefers  the  music 
it  cultivates,  and  finds  fault  with  the  music  of  other  races. 
And  yet  a  man  who  has  learned  melody  and  measure  will 
recognize  a  music  in  them  all.  So  it  is  with  virtue,  the  music 
of  the  human  soul.  It  differs  in  differing  races.  But  he  who 
has  learned  to  know  what  virtue  is  can  recognize  its  harmonies, 
wherever  they  be  heard.  And  thus  the  soul  that  fulfils  its 
own  notions  of  music,  and  carries  them  up  to  its  idea  of  excel- 
lence, is  the  master  soul  ;  and  in  the  regions  to  which  it  goes, 
when  the  breath  leaves  the  lips  it  pursues,  the  same  are  set  free 
from  the  trammels  that  confined,  and  the  false  judgments  that 
marred  it  here.  For  then  the  soul  is  no  longer  Spartan,  or 
Ionian,  Lydian,  Median,  or  Scythian.  Escaped  into  the  upper 


98  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

air,  it  is  the  citizen  of  universal  freedom  and  universal  light. 
And  hence  it  does  not  live  as  a  ghost  in  gloomy  shades,  being 
merely  a  pale  memory  of  things  that  have  passed  away  ;  but  in 
its  primitive  being  as  an  emanation  from  the  one  divine  prin- 
ciple which  penetrates  everywhere,  verifies  all  things,  and 
enjoys  in  all.  This  is  what  I  weave  together  from  the  doc- 
trines of  varying  schools  ;  schools  that  collect  from  the  fields 
of  thought  flowers  of  different  kinds  which  conceal,  by  adorn- 
ing it,  the  ligament  that  unites  them  all  ;  this,  I  say,  O 
Pausanias,  is  my  conception  of  the  soul." 

Cleonice  rose  softly,  and  taking  from  her  bosom  a  rose,  kissed 
it  fervently,  and  laid  it  at  the  feet  of  the  singer. 

"  Were  this  my  soul,"  cried  she,  "  I  would  ask  thee  to  bind 
it  in  the  wreath." 

Vague  and  troubled  thoughts  passed  meanwhile  through  the 
mind  of  the  Heracleid  ;  old  ideas  being  disturbed  and  dis- 
lodged, the  new  ones  did  not  find  easy  settlement  in  a  brain 
occupied  with  ambitious  schemes  and  a  heart  agitated  by 
stormy  passions.  In  much  superstitious,  in  much  skeptical, 
as  education  had  made  him  the  one,  and  experience  but  of 
worldly  things  was  calculated  to  make  him  the  other,  he  fol- 
lowed not  the  wing  of  the  philosophy  which  passed  through 
heights  not  occupied  by  Olympus,  and  dived  into  depths  where 
no  Tartarus  echoed  to  the  wail  of  Cocytus. 

After  a  pause  he  said  in  his  perplexity  : 

"  Well  mayest  thou  own  that  no  Delphian  oracle  tells  thee 
all  this.  And  v/hen  thou  speakest  of  the  Divine  Principle  as 
One,  dost  thou  not,  O  presumptuous  man,  depopulate  the  Halls 
of  Ida?  Nay,  is  it  not  Zeus  himself  whom  thou  dethrones!  ; 
is  not  thy  Divine  Principle  the  fate  which  Zeus  himself  must 
obey?" 

"  There  is  a  young  man  of  Clazomense,"  answered  the  singer, 
"  named  Anaxagoras,  who,  avoiding  all  active  life,  though  of 
birth  the  noblest,  gives  himself  up  to  contemplation,  and  whom 
I  have  listened  to  in  the  city  as  he  passed  through  it,  on  his 
way  into  Egypt.  And  I  heard  him  say,  '  Fate  is  an  empty 
name.'  *  Fate  is  blind,  the  Divine  is  All-seeing." 

"  How  !  "  cried  Cleonice.  "  An  empty  name — she  !  Neces- 
sity the  All-compelling." 

The  musician  drew  from  the  harp  one  of  the  most  artful  of 
Sappho's  exquisite  melodies. 

"  What  drew  forth  that  music  ?  "  he  asked,  smiling.     "  My 

*  Anaxagoras  was  then  between  twenty  and  thirty  years  of  age. — See  Ritter,  vol.  ii.,  for 
the  sentiment  here  ascribed  to  him,  and  a  general  view  of  his  tenets. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  99 

hand  and  my  will  from  a  genius  not  present,  not  visible.  Was 
that  genius  a  blind  fate  ?  No,  it  was  a  grand  intelligence. 
Nature  is  to  the  Deity  what  my  hand  and  will  are  to  the  unseen 
genius  of  the  musician.  They  obey  an  intelligence  and  they 
form  a  music.  If  creation  proceed  from  an  intelligence,  what 
we  call  Fate  is  but  the  consequence  of  its  laws.  And  Nature 
operates  not  in  the  external  world  alone,  but  in  the  core  of  all 
life  ;  therefore  in  the  mind  of  man  obeying  only  what  some 
supreme  intelligence  has  placed  there  ;  therefore  in  man's  mind 
producing  music  or  discord,  according  as  he  has  learned  the 
principles  of  harmony,  that  is,  of  good.  And  there  be  sages 
who  declare  that  Intelligence  and  Love  are  the  same.  Yet," 
added  the  Mothon,  with  an  aspect  solemnly  compassion- 
ate, "  not  the  love  thou  mockest  by  the  name  of  Aphrodite. 
No  mortal  eye  hath  ever  seen  that  love  within  the  known 
sphere,  yet  all  insensibly  feel  its  reign.  What  keeps  the  world 
together  but  affection  ?  What  makes  the  earth  bring  forth  its 
fruits,  but  the  kindness  which  beams  in  the  sunlight  and 
descends  in  the  dews  ?  What  makes  the  lioness  watch  over 
her  cubs,  and  the  bird,  with  all  air  for  its  wanderings,  come 
back  to  the  fledglings  in  its  nest  ?  Strike  love,  the  conjoiner, 
from  creation,  and  creation  returns  to  a  void.  Destroy  love 
the  parental,  and  life  is  born  but  to  perish.  Where  stop  the 
influence  of  love  or  how  limit  its  multiform  degrees  ?  Love 
guards  the  fatherland  ;  crowns  with  turrets  the  walls  of  the  free- 
man. What  but  love  binds  the  citizens  of  States  together,  and 
frames  and  heeds  the  laws  that  submit  individual  liberty  to  the 
rule  of  the  common  good  ?  Love  creates,  love  cements,  love 
enters  and  harmonizes  all  things.  And  as  like  attracts  like,  so 
love  attracts  in  the  hereafter  the  loving  souls  that  conceived  it 
here.  From  the  region  where  it  summons  them,  its  opposites 
are  excluded.  There  ceases  war  ;  there  ceases  pain.  There 
indeed  intermingle  the  beautiful  and  glorious,  but  beauty  puri- 
fied from  earthly  sin,  the  glorious  resting  from  earthly  toil. 
Ask  ye  how  to  know  on  earth  where  love  is  really  presiding  ? 
Not  in  Paphos,  not  in  Amachus.  Wherever  thou  seest  beauty 
and  good  ;  wherever  thou  seest  life,  and  that  life  pervaded 
with  faculties  of  joy,  there  thou  seest  love  ;  there  thou  shouldst 
recognize  the  Divinity." 

"And  where  I  see  misery  and  hate,"  said  the  Spartan,  "  what 
should  I  recognize  there  ?  " 

"  Master,"  returned  the  singer,  "  can  the  good  come  without 
a  struggle  ?  Is  the  beautiful  accomplished  without  strife  ? 
Recall  the  tales  of  primeval  chaos,  when,  as  sang  the  Ascraean 


100  1'AUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

singer,  love  first  darted  into  the  midst  ;  imagine  the  heave  and 
throe  of  joining  elements  ;  conjure  up  the  first  living  shapes, 
horn  of  the  fluctuating  slime  and  vapor.  Surely  they  were 
things  incomplete,  deformed — ghastly  fragments  of  being,  as 
are  the  dreams  of  a  maniac.  Had  creative  Love  stopped  there, 
and  then,  standing  on  the  height  of  some  fair  completed  world, 
had  viewed  the  warring  portents,  wouldst  thou  not  have  said — 
But  these  are  the  works  of  Evil  and  Hate  ?  Love  did  not  stop 
there,  it  worked  on  ;  and  out  of  the  chaos  once  ensouled,  this 
glorious  world  swung  itself  into  ether,  the  completed  sister  of 
the  stars.  Again,  O  my  listeners,  contemplate  the  sculptor, 
when  the  block  from  the  granite  shaft  first  stands  rude  and 
shapeless  before  him.  See  him  in  his  earlier  strife  with  the 
obstinate  matter — how  uncouth  the  first  outline  of  limb  and 
feature  ;  unlovelier  often  in  the  rugged  commencements  of 
shape  than  when  the  dumb  mass  stood  shapeless.  If  the 
sculptor  had  stopped  there,  the  thing  might  serve  as  an  image 
for  the  savage  of  an  abominable  creed,  engaged  in  the  sacrifice 
of  human  flesh.  But  he  pauses  not,  he  works  on.  Stroke  by 
stroke  comes  from  the  stone  a  shape  of  more  beauty  than  man 
himself  is  endowed  with,  and  in  a  human  temple  stands  a 
celestial  image. 

"  Thus  is  it  with  the  soul  in  the  mundane  sphere  ;  it  works 
its  way  on  through  the  adverse  matter.  We  see  its  work  half 
completed  ;  we  cry,  Lo,  this  is  misery,  this  is  hate — because 
the  chaos  is  not  yet  a  perfected  world,  and  the  stone  block  is 
not  yet  a  statue  of  Apollo.  But  for  that  reason  must  we  pause  ? 
No,  we  must  work  on,  till  the  victory  brings  the  repose. 

"  All  things  come  into  order  from  the  war  of  contraries — the 
elements  fight  and  wrestle  to  produce  the  wild  flower  at  our 
feet  ;  from  a  wild  flower  man  hath  striven  and  toiled  to  perfect 
the  marvellous  rose  of  the  hundred  leaves.  Hate  is  necessary 
for  the  energies  of  love,  evil  for  the  activity  of  good  ;  until,  I 
say,  the  victory  is  won,  and  Hate  and  Evil  are  subdued,  as 
the  sculptor  subdues  the  stone  ;  and  then  rises  the  divine 
image  serene  forever,  and  rests  on  its  pedestal  in  the  Uranian 
Temple.  Lift  thine  eyes  ;  that  temple  is  yonder.  O  Pausa- 
nias,  the  sculptor's  workroom  is  the  earth." 

Alcman  paused,  and  sweeping  his  hand  once  more  over  his 
lyre,  chanted  as  follows  : 

"  Dewdrop  that  wcepest  on  the  sharp-barbed  thorn. 
Why  did'st  thou  fall  from  Day's  golden  chalices  ? 
'  My  tears  bathe  the  thorn, 'said  the  Dewdrop, 
'  To  nourish  the  bloom  of  the  rose.' 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  IOI 

Soul  of  the  Infant,  why  to  calamity 

Comest  thou  wailing  from  the  calm  spirit-source  ? 

4  Ask  of  the  Dew,'  said  the  Infant, 

4  Why  it  descends  on  the  thorn  ! ' 

Dewdrop  from  storm,  and  soul  from  calamity 
Vanish  soon — whither  ?  let  the  Dew  answer  thec  ; 
'  Have  not  my  tears  been  my  glory? 
Tears  drew  me  up  10  the  sun.' 

What  were  thy  uses  that  thou  art  glorified  ? 
What  did  thy  tears  give,  profiting  earth  or  sky? 
4  There,  to  the  thorn-stem  a  blossom, 
Here,  to  the  Iris  a  tint.'  " 

Alcman  had  modulated  the  tones  of  his  voice  into  a  sweet- 
ness so  plaintive  and  touching  that,  when  he  paused,  the  hand- 
maidens had  involuntarily  risen  and  gathered  round,  hushed 
and  noiseless.  Cleonice  had  lowered  her  veil  over  her  face 
and  bosom  ;  but  the  heaving  of  its  tissue  betrayed  her  half- 
suppressed,  gentle  sob;  and  the  proud  mournfulness  on  the 
Spartan's  swarthy  countenance  had  given  way  to  a  soft  com- 
posure, melancholy  still — but  melancholy  as  a  lulled,  though 
dark  water,  over  which  starlight  steals  through  disparted  cloud. 

Cleonice  was  the  first  to  break  the  spell  which  bound  them 
all. 

"I  would  go  within,"  she  murmured  faintly.  "The  sun, 
now  slanting,  strikes  through  the  vine-leaves,  and  blinds  me 
with  its  glare." 

Pausanias  approached  timidly,  and  taking  her  by  the  hand, 
drew  her  aside,  along  one  of  the  grassy  alleys  that  stretched 
onwards  to  the  sea. 

The  handmaidens  tarried  behind  to  cluster  nearer  round  the 
singer.  They  forgot  he  was  a  slave. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"THOU  art  weeping  still,  Cleonice!"  said  the  Spartan, 
"  and  I  have  not  the  privilege  to  kiss  away  thy  tears." 

"  Nay,  I  weep  not,"  answered  the  girl,  throwing  up  her  veil ; 
and  her  face  was  calm,  if  still  sad — the^tear  yet  on  the  eyelids, 
but  the  smile  upon  the  lip — daxpvdev  yeXdoiffae.  "  Thy 
singer  has  learned  his  art  from  a  teacher  heavenlier  than  the 
Pierides,  and  its  name  is  Hope." 

"  But  if  I  understand  him  aright,"  said  Pausanias,  "the 
Hope  that  inspires  him  is  a  goddess  who  blesses  us  little  on 
the  earth." 


102  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

As  if  the  Mothon  had  overheard  the  Spartan,  his  voice  here 
suddenly  rose  behind  them,  singing  : 

"  There  the  Beautiful  and  Glorious 
Intermingle  evermore." 

Involuntarily  both  turned.  The  Mothon  seemed  as  if  ex- 
plaining to  the  handmaids  the  allegory  of  his  marriage  song 
upon  Helen  and  Achilles,  for  his  hand  was  raised  on  high, 
and  again,  with  an  emphasis,  he  chanted  : 

"  There,  throughout  the  Blessed  Islands, 

And  amid  the  Race  of  Light, 
Do  the  Beautiful  and  Glorious 
Intermingle  evermore." 

"Canst  thou  not  wait,  if  thou  so  lovest  me  ? "  said  Cleonice, 
with  more  tenderness  in  her  voice  than  it  had  ever  yet 
betrayed  to  him  ;  "  life  is  very  short.  Hush  !  "  she  continued, 
checking  the  passionate  interruption  that  burst  from  his  lips  ; 
"  I  have  something  I  would  confide  to  thee  :  listen.  Know 
that  in  my  childhood  I  had  a  dear  friend,  a  maiden  a  few  years 
older  than  myself,  and  she  had  the  divine  gift  of  trance  which 
comes  from  Apollo.  Often,  gazing  into  space,  her  eyes 
became  fixed,  and  her  frame  still  as  a  statue's  ;  then  a  shiver 
seized  her  limbs,  and  prophecy  broke  from  her  lips.  And  she 
told  me  in  one  of  these  hours,  when,  as  she  said,  '  all  space 
and  all  time  seemed  spread  before  her  like  a  sunlit  ocean,'  she 
told  me  of  my  future,  so  far  as  its  leaves  have  yet  unfolded 
from  the  stem  of  my  life.  Spartan,  she  prophesied  that  I  should 
see  thee — and  " — Cleonice  paused,  blushing,  and  then  hurried 
on — "  and  she  told  me  that  suddenly  her  eye  could  follow  my 
fate  on  the  earth  no  more,  that  it  vanished  out  of  the  time  and 
the  space  on  which  it  gazed,  and  saying  it  she  wept,  and  broke 
into  funeral  song.  And  therefore,  Pausanias,  I  say  life  is  very 
short  for  me  at  least —  " 

"  Hold  !  "  cried  Pausanias  ;  "  torture  not  me,  nor  delude 
thyself  with  the  dreams  of  a  raving  girl.  Lives  she  near?  Let 
me  visit  her  with  thoe,  and  I  will  prove  thy  prophetess  an  im- 
postor." 

"  They  whom  the  Priesthood  of  Delphi  employ  throughout 
Hellas  to  find  the  fit  natures  of  a  Pythoness  heard  of  her,  and 
heard  herself.  She  whom  thou  callest  impostor  gives  the 
answer  to  perplexed  nations  from  the  Pythian  shrine.  But 
wherefore  doubt  her  ?  Where  the  sorrow  ?  I  feel  none.  If 
love  does  rule  the  worlds  beyond,  and  does  unite  souls  who 
love  nobly  here,  yonder  we  shall  meet,  O  descendant  of  Her- 
cules, and  human  laws  will  pot  part  us  there," 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  103 

"  Thou  die !  Die  before  me  !  Thou,  scarcely  half  my 
years  !  And  I  be  left  here,  with  no  comfort  but  a  singer's 
dreamy  verse,  not  even  mine  ambition  !  Thrones  would  vanish 
out  of  earth,  and  turn  to  cinders  in 'thine  urn." 

"  Speak  not  of  thrones,"  said  Cleonice,  with  imploring  soft- 
ness, "  for  the  prophetess,  too,  spake  of  steps  that  went  towards 
a  throne,  and  vanished  at  the  threshold  of  darkness,  beside 
which  sate  the  Furies.  Speak  not  of  thrones,  dream  but  of 
glory  and  Hellas — of  what  thy  soul  tells  thee  is  that  virtue 
which  makes  life  an  Uranian  music,  and  thus  unites  it  to  the 
eternal  symphony,  as  the  breath  of  the  single  flute  melts  when 
it  parts  from  the  instrument  into  the  great  concord  of  the  choir. 
Knowest  thou  not  that  in  the  creed  of  the  Persians  each  mortal 
is  watched  on  earth  by  a  good  spirit  and  an  evil  one?  And 
they  who  loved  us  below,  or  to  whom  we  have  done  beneficent 
and  gentle  deeds,  if  they  go  before  us  into  death,  pass  to  the 
side  of  the  good  spirit,  and  strengthen  him  to  save  and  to  bless 
thee  against  the  malice  of  the  bad,  and  the  bad  is  strengthened 
in  his  turn  by  those  whom  we  have  injured.  Wouldst  thou 
have  all  the  Greeks  whose  birthright  thou  wouldst  barter,  whose 
blood  thou  wouldst  shed  for  barbaric  aid  to  thy  solitary  and 
lawless  power,  stand  by  the  side  of  the  evil  Fiend  ?  And  what 
could  I  do  against  so  many.  What  could  my  soul  do,"  added 
Cleonice  with  simple  pathos,  "  by  the  side  of  the  kinder 
spirit  ?" 

Pausanias  was  wholly  subdued.  He  knelt  to  the  girl;  he  kissed 
the  hem  of  her  robe,  and  for  the  moment  ambition,  luxury, 
pomp,  pride  fled  from  his  soul,  and  left  there  only  the  grate- 
ful tenderness  of  the  man,  and  the  lofty  instincts  of  the  hero. 
But  just  then — was  it  the  evil  spirit  that  sent  him  ? — the 
boughs  of  the  vine  were  put  aside,  and  Gongylus  the  Eretrian 
stood  before  them.  His  black  eyes  glittered  keen  upon  Pausa- 
nias, who  rose  from  his  knee,  startled  and  displeased. 

"  What  brings  thee  hither,  man  ?  "  said  the  Regent  haughtily. 

"Danger,"  answered  Gongylus  in  a  hissing  whisper.  "  Lose 
not  a  moment — come." 

"  Danger  !  "  exclaimed  Cleonice  tremblingly,  and  clasping 
her  hands,  and  all  the  human  love  at  her  heart  was  visible  in 
her  aspect.  "Danger,  and  to  him  /" 

"  Danger  is  but  as  the  breeze  of  my  native  air,"  said  the 
Spartan,  smiling  ;  "thus  I  draw  it  in  and  thus  breathe  it  away. 
I  follow  thee,  Gongylus.  Take  my  greeting,  Cleonice — the 
Good  to  the  Beautiful.  Well,  then,  keep  Alcman  yet  awhile 
to  sing  thy  kind  face  to  repose,  and  this  time  let  him  tune  hi> 


104  5ANIAS,     THE   SPARTAN. 

lyre  to  songs  of  a  more  Dorian  strain — songs  that  show   what 
a  Heracleid  thinks  of  danger." 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  the  two  men,  striding  hastily, 
passed  along  the  vine  alley,  darkened  its  vista  for  a  few 
minutes,  then  vanishing  down  the  descent  to  the  beach,  the 
wide  blue  sea  again  lay  lone  and  still  before  the  eyes  of  the 
Byzantine  maid. 

CHAPTER   III. 

PAUSANIAS  and  the  Eretrian  halted  on  the  shore. 

"  Now  speak,"  said  the  Spartan  Regent.  '*  Where  is  the 
danger  ?" 

"  Before  thee,"  answered  Gongylus,  and  his  hand  pointed  to 
the  ocean. 

"  I  see  the  fleet  of  the  Greeks  in  the  harbor — I  see  the  flag 
of  my  galley  above  the  forest  of  their  masts.  I  see  detached 
vessels  skimming  along  the  waves  hither  and  thither  as  in 
holiday  and  sport  ;  but  discipline  slackens  where  no  foe  dares 
to  sho\v  himself.  Eretrian,  I  see  no  danger." 

"  Yet  danger  is  there,  and  where  danger  is  thou  shouldst  be. 
I  have  learned  from  my  spies,  not  an  hour  since,  that  there  is 
a  conspiracy  formed — a  mutiny  on  the  eve  of  an  outburst. 
Thy  place  now  should  be  in  thy  galley." 

"  My  boat  waits  yonder  in  that  creek,  overspread  by  the 
wild  shrubs,"  answered  Pausanias  ;  "  a  few  strokes  of  the  oar, 
and  I  am  where  thou  seest.  And  in  truth,  without  thy  sum- 
mons, I  should  have  been  on  board  ere  sunset,  seeing  that  on 
the  morrow  I  have  ordered  a  general  review  of  the  vessels  of 
the  fleet.  Was  that  to  be  the  occasion  for  the  mutiny  ?" 

"  So  it  is  supposed." 

"  I  shall  see  the  faces  of  the  mutineers,"  said  Pausanias, 
with  a  calm  visage,  and  an  eye  which  seemed  to  brighten  the 
very  atmosphere.  "  Thou  shakest  thy  head  ;  is  this  all  ? " 

"  Thou  art  not  a  bird — this  moment  in  one  place,  that 
moment  in  another.  There,  with  yon  armament,  is  the  danger 
thou  canst  meet.  But  yonder  sails  a  danger  which  thou  canst 
not,  I  fear  me,  overtake." 

"  Yonder  ! "  said  Pausanias,  his  eye  following  the  hand 
of  the  Eretrian.  "I  see  naught  save  the  white  wing  of  a 
seagull — perchance,  by  its  dip  into  the  water,  it  foretells  a 
storm." 

"  Farther  off  than  the  seagull,  and  seeming  smaller  than  the 
white  spot  of  its  wing,  seest  thou  nothing?" 


PAUSANIAS,    THK    SPARTAN.  105 

"  A  dim  speck  on  the  farthest  horizon,  if  mine  eyes  mistake 
not." 

"The  speck  of  a  sail  that  is  bound  to  Sparta.  It  carries 
with  it  a  request  for  thy  recall." 

This  time  the  cheek  of  Pausanias  paled,  and  his  voice 
slightly  faltered  as  he  said  : 

"  Art  thou  sure  of  this  ?" 

"  So  I  hear  that  the  Samian  captain,  Uliades,  has  boasted  at 
noon  in  the  public  baths." 

"  A  Samian  !  Is  it  only  a  Samian  who  has  ventured  to 
address  to  Sparta  a  complaint  of  her  general  ?  " 

"  From  what  I  could  gather,"  replied  Gongylus,  "the  com- 
plaint is  more  powerfully  backed.  But  I  have  not  as  yet 
heard  more,  though  I  conjecture  that  Athens  has  not  been 
silent,  and  before  the  vessel  sailed  Ionian  captains  were  seen 
to  come  with  joyous  faces  from  the  lodgings  of  Cimon." 

The  Regent's  brow  grew  yet  more  troubled.  "Cimon,  of 
all  the  Greeks  out  of  Laconia,  is  the  one  whose  word  would 
weigh  most  in  Sparta.  But  my  Spartans  themselves  are  not 
suspected  with  privity  and  connivance  in  the  mission?" 

"  It  is  not  said  that  they  are." 

Pausanius  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand  for  a  moment  in 
deep  thought.  Gongylus  continued  : 

"  If  the  Ephors  recall  thee  before  the  Asian  army  is  on  the 
frontier,  farewell  to  the  sovereignty  of  Hellas  !  " 

"Ha!  "cried  Pausanias,  "tempt  me  not.  Thinkest  thou 
I  need  other  tempter  than  I  have  here?" — smiting  his 
breast. 

Gongylus  recoiled  in  surprise.  "  Pardon  me,  Pausanias,  but 
temptation  is  another  word  for  hesitation.  I  dreamed  not  that 
I  could  tempt  ;  I  did  not  know  that  thou  didst  hesitate." 

The  Spartan  remained  silent. 

"  Are  not  thy  messengers  on  the  road  to  the  great  King  ?— 
nay,  perhaps  already  they  have  reached  him.  Didst  thou  not 
say  how  intolerable  to  thee  would  be  life  henceforth  in  the  iron 
thraldom  of  Sparta — and  now  ?" 

"  And  now — I  forbid  thee  to  question  me  more.  Thou  hast 
performed  thy  task,  leave  me  to  mine." 

He  sprang  with  the  spring  of  the  mountain  goat  from  the 
crag  on  which  he  stood — over  a  precipitous  chasm,  lighted  on 
a  narrow  ledge,  from  which  a  slip  of  the  foot  would  have  been 
sure  death  ;  another  bound  yet  more  fearful,  and  his  whole 
weight  hung  suspended  by  the  bough  of  the  ilex  which  he 
grasped  with  a  single  hand  ;  then  from  bough  to  bough,  from 


106  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

crag  to  crag,  the  Eretrian  saw  him  descending  till  he  vanished 
amidst  the  trees  that  darkened  over  the  fissures  at  the  foot  of 
the  cliff. 

And  before  Gongylus  had  recovered  his  amaze  at  the  almost 
preterhuman  agility  and  vigor  of  the  Spartan,  and  his  dizzy 
sense  at  the  contemplation  of  such  peril  braved  by  another,  a 
boat  shot  into  the  sea  from  the  green  creek,  and  he  saw  Pau- 
sanias  seated  beside  Lysander  on  one  of  the  benches,  and  con- 
versing with  him,  as  if  in  calm  earnestness,  while  the  ten  rowers 
sent  the  boat  towards  the  fleet  with  the  swiftness  of  an  arrow 
to  its  goal. 

"  Lysander,"  said  Pausanias,  "  hast  thou  heard  that  the 
lonians  have  offered  to  me  the  insult  of  a  mission  to  the 
Ephors  demanding  my  recall  ?  " 

*'  No.     Who  would  tell  me  of  insult  to  thee  ?  " 

"  But  hast  thou  any  conjecture  that  other  Spartans  around 
me,  and  who  love  me  less  than  thou,  would  approve,  nay,  have 
approved,  this  embassy  of  spies  and  malcontents  ?  " 

"  I  think  none  have  so  approved.  I  fear  some  would  so 
approve.  The  Spartans  round  thee  would  rejoice  did  they 
know  that  the  pride  of  their  armies,  the  Victor  of  Plataea,  were 
once  more  within  their  walls." 

"  Even  to  the  danger  of  Hellas  from  the  Mede  ? " 

"  They  would  rather  all  Hellas  were  Medized  than  Pausanias 
the  Heracleid." 

"  Boy,  boy,"  said  Pausanias,  between  his  ground  teeth,  "  dost 
thou  not  see  that  what  is  sought  is  the  disgrace  of  Pausanias 
the  Heracleid  ?  Grant  that  I  am  recalled  from  the  head  of 
this  armament,  and  on  the  charge  of  lonians,  and  I  am  dis- 
honored in  the  eyes  of  all  Greece.  Dost  thou  remember  in  the 
last  Olympiad  that  when  Themistocles,  the  only  rival  now  to 
me  in  glory,  appeared  on  the  Altis,  assembled  Greece  rose  to 
greet  and  do  him  honor  ?  And  if  I,  deposed,  dismissed, 
appeared  at  the  next  Olympiad,  how  would  assembled  Greece 
receive  me  ?  Couldst  thou  not  see  the  pointed  finger  and  hear 
the  muttered  taunt — That  is  Pausanias,  whom  the  lonians 
banished  from  Byzantium.  No,  I  must  abide  ;  I  must  prosecute 
the  vast  plans  which  shall  dwarf  into  shadow  the  petty  genius 
of  Themistocles.  I  must  counteract  this  mischievous  embassy 
to  the  Ephors.  I  must  send  to  them  an  ambassador  of  my  own. 
Lysander,  wilt  thou  go,  and  burying  in  thy  bosom  thine  own 
Spartan  prejudices,  deem  that  thou  canst  only  serve  me  by 
proving  the  reasons  why  I  should  remain  here  ;  pleading  for 
me,  arguing  for  me,  and  winning  my  suit/' 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  1OJ 

"  It  is  for  thee  to  command  and  for  me  to  obey  thee," 
answered  Lysander  simply.  "  Is  not  that  the  duty  of  soldier 
to  chief  ?  When  we  converse  as  friends  I  may  contend  with 
thee  in  speech.  When  thou  sayest,  Do  this,  I  execute  thine 
action.  To  reason  with  thee  would  be  revolt." 

Pausanias  placed  his  clasped  hands  on  the  young  man's 
shoulder,  and  leaving  them  there,  impressively  said  : 

"  I  select  thee  for  this  mission  because  thee  alone  can  I  trust. 
And  of  me  hast  thou  a  doubt  ?  Tell  me." 

"  If  I  saw  thee  taking  the  Persian  gold  I  should  say  that  the 
Demon  had  mocked  mine  eyes  with  a  delusion.  Never  could 
I  doubt,  unless — unless — " 

"  Unless  what  ?  " 

"  Thou  wert  standing  under  Jove's  sky  against  the  arms  of 
Hellas." 

"  And  then,  if  some  other  chief  bade  thee  raise  thy  sword 
against  me,  thou  art  Spartan  and  wouldst  obey  ?  " 

"  I  am  Spartan,  and  cannot  believe  that  I  should  ever  have  a 
cause,  or  listen  to  a  command,  to  raise  my  sword  against  the 
chief  I  now  serve  and  love,"  replied  Lysander. 

Pausanias  withdrew  his  hands  from  the  young  man's  broad 
shoulder.  He  felt  humbled  beside  the  quiet  truth  of  that 
sublime  soul.  His  own  deceit  became  more  black  to  his 
conscience.  "  Methinks,"  he  said  tremulously,  "  I  will  not 
send  thee  after  all — and  perhaps  the  news  may  be  false." 

The  boat  had  now  gained  the  fleet,  and  steering  amidst  the 
crowded  triremes,  made  its  way  towards  the  floating  banner  of 
the  Spartan  Serpent.  More  immediately  round  the  General's 
galley  were  the  vessels  of  the  Peloponnesian  allies,  by  whom  he 
was  still  honored.  A  welcoming  shout  rose  from  the  seamen 
lounging  on  their  decks  as  they  caught  sight  of  the  renowned 
Heracleid.  Cimon,  who  was  on  his  own  galley  at  some  dis- 
tance, heard  the  shout. 

"  So  Pausanias,"  he  said,  turning  to  the  officers  round  him, 
"  has  deigned  to  come  on  board,  to  direct,  I  suppose,  the 
manoeuvres  for  to-morrow." 

"  I  believe  it  is  but  the  form  of  a  review  for  manoeuvres," 
said  an  Athenian  officer,  "  in  which  Pausanias  will  inspect  the 
various  divisions  of  the  fleet,  and  if  more  be  intended,  will  give 
the  requisite  orders  for  a  subsequent  day.  No  arrangements 
demanding  much  preparation  can  be  anticipated,  for  Antagoras, 
the  rich  Chian,  gives  a  great  banquet  this  day — a  supper  to  the 
principal  captains  of  the  Isles." 

"  A  frank  and  hospitable  reveller  is  Antagoras,  "  answered 


I08  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

Cimon.  "  He  would  have  extended  his  invitation  to  the  Athe- 
nians— me  included — but  in  their  name  I  declined." 

"  May  x  ask  wherefore  ?  "  said  the  officer  who  had  before 
spoken.  "  Cimon  is  not  held  averse  to  wine-cup  and  myrtle- 
bough." 

"  But  things  are  said  over  some  wine-cups  and  under  some 
myrtle-boughs,"  answered  Cimon,  with  a  quiet  laugh,  "which 
it  is  imprudence  to  hear  and  would  be  treason  to  repeat.  Sup 
with  me  here  on  deck,  friends — a  supper  for  sober  companions 
— sober  as  the  Laconian  Syssitia,  and  let  not  Spartans  say 
that  our  manners  are  spoilt  by  the  luxuries  of  Byzantium." 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  an  immense  peristyle  of  a  house  which  a  Byzantine  noble, 
ruined  by  lavish  extravagance,  had  been  glad  to  cede  to  the 
accommodation  of  Antagoras  and  other  officers  of  Chios,  the 
young  rival  of  Pausanias  feasted  the  chiefs  of  the  ^gean. 
However  modern  civilization  may  in  some  things  surpass  the 
ancient,  it  is  certainly  not  in  luxury  and  splendor.  And  although 
the  Hellenic  States  had  not,  at  that  period,  aimed  at  the  pomp 
of  show  and  the  refinements  of  voluptuous  pleasure  which  pre- 
ceded their  decline,  and  although  they  never  did  carry  luxury 
to  the  wondrous  extent  which  it  reached  in  Asia,  or  even  in 
Sicily,  yet  even  at  that  time  a  wealthy  sojourner  in  such  a  city 
as  Byzantium  could  command  an  entertainment  that  no  monarch 
in  our  age  would  venture  to  parade  before  royal  guests,  and 
submit  to  the  criticism  of  tax-paying  subjects. 

The  columns  of  the  peristyle  were  of  dazzling  alabaster, 
with  their  capitals  richly  gilt.  The  space  above  was  roofless  ; 
but  an  immense  awning  of  purple,  richly  embroidered  in  Per- 
sian looms — a  spoil  of  some  gorgeous  Mede — shaded  the  feast- 
ers  from  the  summer  sky.  The  couches  on  which  the  banquet- 
ers reclined  were  of  citron  wood,  inlaid  with  ivory,  and  covered 
with  the  tapestries  of  Asiatic  looms.  At  the  four  corners  of 
the  vast  hall  played  four  fountains,  and  their  spray  sparkled  to 
a  blaze  of  light  from  colossal  candelabra,  in  which  burnt  per- 
fumed oil.  The  guests  were  not  assembled  at  a  single  table, 
but  in  small  groups  ;  to  each  group  its  tripod  of  exquisite  work- 
manship. To  that  feast  of  fifty  revellers  no  less  than  seventy 
cooks  had  contributed  the  inventions  of  their  art,  but  under 
one  great  master,  to  whose  care  the  banquet  had  been  con- 
signed by  the  liberal  host,  and  who  ransacked  earth,  sky,  and 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  lOQ 

sea  for  dainties  more  various  than  this  degenerate  age  ever 
sees  accumulated  at  a  single  board.  And  the  epicure  who  has 
but  glanced  over  the  elaborate  page  of  Athenseus  must  own 
with  melancholy  self-humiliation  that  the  ancients  must  have 
carried  the  art  of  flattering  the  palate  to  a  perfection  as  abso- 
lute as  the  art  which  built  the  Parthenon,  and  sculptured  out  of 
gold  and  ivory  the  Olympian  Jove.  But  the  first  course,  with 
its  profusion  of  birds,  flesh,  and  fishes,  its  marvellous  combina- 
tions of  forced  meats,  and  inventive  poetry  of  sauces,  was  now 
over.  And  in  the  interval  preceding  that  second  course,  in 
which  gastronomy  put  forth  its  most  exquisite  masterpieces,  the 
slaves  began  to  remove  the  tables,  soon  to  be  replaced.  Vessels 
of  fragrant  waters,  in  which  the  banqueters  dipped  their  fingers, 
were  handed  round  ;  perfumes,  which  the  Byzantine  marts  col- 
lected from  every  clime,  escaped  from  their  precious  receptacles. 

Then  were  distributed  the  garlands.  With  these  each  guest 
crowned  locks  that  steamed  with  odors ;  and  in  them  were 
combined  the  flowers  that  most  charm  the  eye,  with  bud  or 
herb  that  most  guard  from  the  head  the  fumes  of  wine :  with 
hyacinth  and  flax,  with  golden  asphodel  and  silver  lily,  the 
green  of  ivy  and  parsley  leaf  was  thus  entwined  ;  and  above 
all  the  rose,  said  to  convey  a  delicious  coolness  to  the  temples 
on  which  it  bloomed.  And  now  for  the  first  time  wine  came 
to  heighten  the  spirits  and  test  the  charm  of  the  garlands. 
Each,  as  the  large  goblet  passed  to  him,  poured  from  the  brim, 
before  it  touched  his  lips,  his  libation  to  the  good  spirit.  And 
as  Antagoras  rising  first,  set  this  pious  example,  out  from  the 
further  ends  of  the  hall,  behind  the  fountains,  burst  a  concert 
of  flutes,  and  the  great  Hellenic  Hymn  of  the  Paean. 

As  this  ceased,  the  fresh  tables  appeared  before  the  banquet- 
ers, covered  with  all  the  fruits  in  season,  and  with  those 
triumphs  in  confectionery,  of  which  honey  was  the  main  ingre- 
dient, that  well  justified  the  favor  in  which  the  Greeks  held 
the  bee. 

Then,  instead  of  the  pure  juice  of  the  grape,  from  which 
the  libation  had  been  poured,  came  the  wines,  mixed  at  least 
three  parts  with  water,  and  deliciously  cooled. 

Up  again  rose  Antagoras,  and  every  eye  turned  to  him. 

"Companions,"'  said  the  young  Chian,  "it  is  not  held  in  free 
States  well  for  a  man  to  seize  by  himself  upon  supreme  author- 
ity. We  deem  that  a  magistracy  should  only  be  obtained  by 
the  votes  of  others.  Nevertheless,  I  venture  to  think  that  the 
latter  plan  does  not  always  ensure  to  us  a  good  master.  I 
believe  it  was  by  election  that  we  Greeks  have  given  to  our- 


110  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

selves  a  generalissimo,  not  contented,  it  is  said,  to  prove  the 
invariable  wisdom  of  that  mode  of  government  ;  wherefore  this 
seems  an  occasion  to  revive  the  good  custom  of  tyranny.  And 
I  propose  to  do  so  in  my  person  by  proclaiming  myself  Sym- 
posiarch  and  absolute  commander  in  the  Commonwealth  here 
assembled.  But  if  ye  prefer  the  chance  of  the  die — " 

"  No,  no,"  cried  the  guests,  almost  universally  ;  "  Antagoras, 
the  Symposiarch,  we  submit.  Issue  thy  laws." 

"  Hearken  then,  and  obey.  First,  then,  as  to  the  strength 
of  the  wine.  Behold  the  crater  in  which  there  are  three 
Naiades  to  one  Dionysos.  He  is  a  match  for  them  ;  not  for 
more.  No  man  shall  put  into  his  wine  more  water  than  the 
slaves  have  mixed.  Yet  if  any  man  is  so  diffident  of  the  god 
that  he  thinks  three  Naiades  too  much  for  him,  he  may  omit 
one  or  two,  and  let  the  wine  and  the  water  fight  it  out  upon 
equal  terms.  So  much  for  the  quality  of  the  drink.  As  to 
quantity,  it  is  a  question  to  be  deliberated  hereafter.  And  now 
this  cup  to  Zeus  the  Preserver." 

The  toast  went  round. 

"  Music,  and  the  music  of  Lydia  !  "  then  shouted  Antagoras, 
and  resumed  his  place  on  the  couch  beside  Uliades. 

The  music  proceeded,  the  wines  circled. 

"  Friend,"  whispered  Uliades  to  the  host,  "  thy  father  left 
thee  wines,  I  know.  But  if  thou  givest  many  banquets  like 
this,  I  doubt  if  thou  wilt  leave  wines  to  thy  son." 

"  I  shall  die  childless,  perhaps,"  answered  the  Chian  ;  "  and 
any  friend  will  give  me  enough  to  pay  Charon's  fee  across  the 
Styx." 

"  That  is  a  melancholy  reflection,"  said  Uliades,  "  and  there 
is  no  subject  of  talk  that  pleases  me  less  than  that  same  Styx. 
Why  dost  thou  bite  thy  lip,  and  choke  the  sigh  ?  By  the  Gods  ! 
art  thou  not  happy  ?" 

"  Happy  !  "  repeated  Antagoras,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  Oh, 
yes  ! " 

"  Good  !  Cleonice  torments  thee  no  more.  I  myself  have 
gone  through  thy  trials  ;  ay,  and  oftentimes.  Seven  times  at 
Samos,  five  at  Rhodes,  once  at  Miletus,  and  forty-three  times 
at  Corinth,  have  I  been  an  impassioned  and  unsuccessful  lover. 
Courage  ;  I  love  still." 

Antagoras  turned  away.  By  this  time  the  hall  was  yet  more 
crowded,  for  many  not  invited  to  the  supper  came,  as  was  the 
custom  with  the  Greeks,  to  the  Symposium  ;  but  these  were  all 
of  the  Ionian  race. 

"  The  music  is  dull  without  the  dancers,"  cried  the  host. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  Ill 

"  Ho,  there  !  the  dancing  girls.  Now  would  I  give  all  the  rest 
of  my  wealth  to  see  among  these  girls  one  face  that  yet  but  for 
a  moment  could  make  me  forget — " 

"  Forget  what,  or  whom  ?  "  said  Uliades  ;  "  not  Cleonice?" 

"  Man,  man,  wilt  thou  provoke  me  to  strangle  thee  ?  "  mut- 
tered Antagoras. 

Uliades  edged  himself  away. 

"  Ungrateful  !  "  he  cried.  ''What  are  a  hundred  Byzantine 
girls  to  one  tried  male  friend  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  be  ungrateful,  Uliades,  if  thou  stand  by  my  side 
against  the  Spartan." 

"Thou  art,  then,  bent  upon  this  perilous  hazard  ?" 

"  Bent  on  driving  Pausanias  from  Byzantium,  or  into  Hades — 
yes." 

"  Touch  !  "  said  Uliades,  holding  out  his  right  hand.  "  By 
Cypris,  but  these  girls  dance  like  the  daughters  of  Oceanus  ; 
every  step  undulates  as  a  wave." 

Antagoras  motioned  to  his  cup-bearer.  "Tell  the  leader  of 
that  dancing  choir  to  come  hither."  The  cup-bearer  obeyed. 

A  man  with  a  solemn  air  came  to  the  foot  of  the  Chian's 
couch,  bowing  low.  He  was  an  Egyptian — one  of  the  meanest 
castes. 

"Swarthy  friend,"  said  Antagoras,  "  didst  thou  ever  hear  of 
the  Pyrrhic  dance  of  the  Spartans  ?" 

"  Surely,  of  all  dances  am  I  teacher  and  preceptor." 

"  Your  girls  know  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Somewhat,  from  having  seen  it  ;  but  not  from  practice. 
'Tis  a  male  dance  and  a  warlike  dance,  O  magnanimous,  but, 
in  this  instance,  untutored,  Chian  !  " 

"Hist,  and  listen."  Antagoras  whispered.  The  Egyptian 
nodded  his  head,  returned  to  the  dancing  girls,  and  when  their 
measure  had  ceased,  gathered  them  round  him. 

Antagoras  again  rose. 

"  Companions,  we  are  bound  now  to  do  homage  to  our  mas- 
ters— the  pleasant,  affable  and  familiar  warriors  of  Sparta." 

At  this  the  guests  gave  way  to  their  applauding  laughter. 

"And  therefore  these  delicate  maidens  will  present  to  us  that 
flowing  and  Amathusian  dance,  which  the  Graces  taught  to 
Spartan  sinews.  Ho,  there  !  begin." 

The  Egyptian  had  by  this  time  told  the  dancers  what  they 
were  expected  to  do  ;  and  they  came  forward  with  an  affecta- 
tion of  stern  dignity,  the  burlesque  humor  of  which  delighted 
all  those  lively  revellers.  And  when  with  adroit  mimicry  their 
slight  arms  and  mincing  steps  mocked  that  grand  and  mascu- 


112  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

line  measure  so  associated  with  images  of  Spartan  austerity  and 
decorum,  the  exhibition  became  so  humorously  ludicrous,  that 
perhaps  a  Spartan  himself  would  have  been  compelled  to  laugh 
at  it.  But  the  merriment  rose  to  its  height,  when  the  Egyptian, 
who  had  withdrawn  for  a  few  minutes,  re-appeared  witli  a 
Median  robe  and  mitred  cap,  and  calling  out  in  his  barbarous 
African  accent :  "  Way  for  the  conqueror  !  "  threw  into  his 
mien  and  gestures  all  the  likeness  to  Pausanias  himself,  which 
a  practised  mime  and  posture-master  could  attain.  The  laughter 
of  Antagoras  alone  was  not  loud — it  was  low  and  sullen,  as  if 
sobs  of  rage  were  stifling  it  ;  but  his  eye  watched  the  effect 
produced,  and  it  answered  the  end  he  had  in  view. 

As  the  dancers  now,  while  the  laughter  was  at  its  loudest 
roar,  vanished  behind  the  draperies,  the  host  rose,  and  his 
countenance  was  severe  and  grave  : 

"  Companions,  one  cup  more,  and  let  it  be  to  Harmodius 
and  Aristogiton.  Let  the  song  in  their  honor  come  only  from 
the  lips  of  free  citizens,  of  our  Ionian  comrades.  Uliades, 
begin.  I  pass  to  thee  a  myrtle  bough  ;  and  under  it  I  pass  a 
sword." 

Then  he  began  the  famous  hymn  ascribed  to  Callistratus, 
commencing  with  a  clear  and  sonorous  voice,  and  the  guests 
repeating  each  stanza  after  him  with  the  enthusiasm  which  the 
words  usually  produced  among  the  Hellenic  republicans  : 

I  in  a  myrtle  bough  the  sword  will  carry, 
As  did  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton  ; 
When  they  the  tyrant  slew, 
And  back  to  Athens  gave  her  equal  laws. 

Thou  art  in  nowise  dead,  best-loved  Harmodius; 
Isles  of  the  Blessed  are,  they  say,  thy  dwelling, 
There  swift  Achilles  dwells, 
And  there,  they  say,  with  thee  dwells  Diomed. 

I  in  a  myrtle  bough  the  sword  will  carry, 
As  did  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton, 
When  to  Athene's  shrine 
They  gave  their  sacrifice — a  tyrant  man. 

Ever  on  earth  for  both  of  you  lives  glory, 
O  loved  Harmodius,  loved  Aristogiton, 
For  ye  the  tyrant  slew. 
And  back  to  Athens  ye  gave  equal  laws. 

When  the  song  had  ceased,  the  dancers,  the  musicians,  the 
attendant  slaves  had  withdrawn  from  the  hall,  dismissed  by  a 
whispered  order  from  Antagoras. 

He,  now  standing  up,  took  from  his  brows  the  floral  crown, 
and  first  sprinkling  them  with  wine,  replaced  the  flowers  by  a 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  113 

wreath  of  poplar.  The  assembly,  a  little  while  before  so  noisy, 
was  hushed  into  attentive  and  earnest  silence.  The  action  of 
Antagoras,  the  expression  of  his  countenance,  the  exclusion  of 
the  slaves,  prepared  all  present  for  something  more  than  the 
convivial  address  of  a  Symposiarch. 

"  Men  and  Greeks,"  said  the  Chian,  "  on  the  evening  before 
Teucer  led  his  comrades  in  exile  over  the  wide  waters  to  found 
a  second  Salamis,  he  sprinkled  his  forehead  with  Lyaean  dews, 
being  crowned  with  the  poplar  leaves — emblems  of  hardihood 
and  contest ;  and,  this  done,  he  invited  his  companions  to  dis- 
pel their  cares  for  the  night,  that  their  hearts  might  with  more 
cheerful  hope  and  bolder  courage  meet  what  the  morrow  might 
bring  to  them  on  the  ocean.  I  imitate  the  ancient  hero,  in 
honor  less  of  him  than  of  the  name  of  Salamis.  We,  too,  have 
a  Salamis  to  remember,  and  a  second  Salamis  to  found.  Can 
ye  forget  that,  had  the  advice  of  the  Spartan  leader  Eurybiades 
been  adopted,  the  victory  of  Salamis  would  never  have  been 
achieved?  He  was  for  retreat  to  the  Isthmus;  he  was  for 
defending  the  Peloponnese,  because  in  the  Peloponnesus  was 
the  unsocial  selfish  Sparta,  and  leaving  the  rest  of  Hellas  to  the 
armament  of  Xerxes.  Themistocles  spoke  against  the  ignoble 
counsel ;  the  Spartan  raised  his  staff  to  strike  him.  Ye  know 
the  Spartan  manners.  '  Strike  if  you  will,  but  hear  me,'  cried 
Themistocles.  He  was  heard,  Xerxes  was  defeated,  and  Hellas 
saved.  I  am  not  Themistocles  ;  nor  is  there  a  Spartan  staff  to 
silence  free  lips.  But  I  too  say,  Hear  me  !  for  a  new  Salamis 
is  to  be  won.  What  was  the  former  Salamis  ? — the  victory  that 
secured  independence  to  the  Greeks,  and  delivered  them  from 
the  Mede  and  the  Medizing  traitor.  Again  we  must  fight  a 
Salamis.  Where,  ye  say,  is  the  Mede? — not  at  Byzantium,  it  is 
true,  in  person  ;  but  the  Medizing  traitor  is  here." 

A  profound  sensation  thrilled  through  the  assembly. 

"  Enough  of  humility  do  the  maritime  lonians  practise  when 
they  accept  the  hegemony  of  a  Spartan  landsman  ;  enough  of 
submission  do  the  free  citizens  of  Hellas  show  when  they  suffer 
the  imperious  Dorian  to  sentence  them  to  punishments  only  fit 
for  slaves.  But  when  the  Spartan  appears  in  the  robes  of  the 
Mede,  when  the  imperious  Dorian  places  in  the  government  of 
a  city,  which  our  joint  arms  now  occupy,  a  recreant  who  has 
changed  an  Eretrian  birthright  for  a  Persian  satrapy  ;  when 
prisoners,  made  by  the  valor  of  all  Hellas,  mysteriously  escape 
the  care  of  the  Lacedaemonian,  who  wears  their  garb,  and  imi- 
tates their  manners — say,  O  ye  Greeks,  O  ye  warriors,  if  there 
is  no  second  Salamis  to  conquer!  " 


114  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

The  animated  words,  and  the  wine  already  drunk,  produced 
on  the  banqueters  an  effect  sudden,  electrical,  universal.  They 
had  come  to  the  hall  gay  revellers  ;  they  were  prepared  to 
leave  the  hall  stern  conspirators. 

Their  hoarse  murmur  was  as  the  voice  of  the  sea  before  a 
storm. 

Antagoras  surveyed  them  with  a  fierce  joy,  and,  with  a 
change  of  tone,  thus  continued  :  "Ye  understand  me,  ye  know 
already  that  a  delivery  is  to  be  achieved.  I  pass  on  :  I  submit 
to  your  wisdom  the  mode  of  achieving  it.  While  I  speak,  a 
swift-sailing  vessel  bears  to  Sparta  the  complaints  of  myself,  of 
Uliades,  and  of  many  Ionian  captains  here  present,  against  the 
Spartan  general.  And  although  the  Athenian  chiefs  decline  to 
proffer  complaints  of  their  own,  lest  their  State,  which  has 
risked  so  much  for  the  common  cause,  be  suspected  of  using 
the  admiration  it  excites  for  the  purpose  of  subserving  its 
ambition,  yet  Cimon,  the  young  son  of  the  great  Miltiades,  who 
has  ties  of  friendship  and  hospitality  with  families  of  high  mark 
in  Sparta,  has  been  persuaded  to  add  to  our  public  statement  a 
private  letter  to  the  effect  that,  speaking  for  himself,  not  in  the 
name  of  Athens,  he  deems  our  complaints  justly  founded,  and 
the  recall  of  Pausanias  expedient  for  the  discipline  of  the 
armament.  But  can  we  say  what  effect  this  embassy  may  have 
upon  a  sullen  and  haughty  government  :  against,  too,  a  royal 
descendant  of  Hercules  ;  against  the  general  who  at  Platrea 
flattered  Sparta  with  a  renown  to  which  her  absence  from 
Marathon,  and  her  meditated  flight  from  Salamis,  gave  but  dis- 
putable pretensions?" 

'' And,"  interrupted  Uliades,  rising,  "and — if,  O  Antagoras, 
1  may  crave  pardon  for  standing  a  moment  between  thee  and 
thy  guests — and  this  is  not  all,  for  even  if  they  recall  Pausa- 
nias, they  may  send  us  another  general  as  bad,  and  without  the 
fame  which  somewhat  reconciles  our  Ionian  pride  to  the  hege- 
mony of  a  Dorian.  Now,  whatever  my  quarrel  with  Pausanias, 
I  am  less  against  a  man  than  a  principle.  I  am  a  seaman,  and 
against  the  principle  of  having  for  the  commander  of  the  Greek 
fleet  a  Spartan  who  does  not  know  how  to  handle  a  sail.  I  am 
an  Ionian,  and  against  the  principle  of  placing  the  Ionian  race 
under  the  imperious  domination  of  a  Dorian.  Therefore  I 
say,  now  is  the  moment  to  emancipate  our  blood  and  out 
ocean — the  one  from  an  alien,  the  other  from  a  landsman.  And 
the  hegemony  of  the  Spartan  should  pass  away." 

Uliades  sat  down  with  an  applause  more  clamorous  than  had 
greeted  the  eloquence  of  Antagoras,  for  the  pride  of  race  and 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  115 

of  special  calling  is  ever  more  strong  in  its  impulses  than  hatred 
to  a  single  man.  And  despite  of  all  that  could  be  said  against 
Pausanias,  still  these  warriors  felt  awe  for  his  greatness,  and 
remembered  that  at  Platsea,  where  all  were  brave,  he  had  been 
proclaimed  the  bravest. 

Antagoras,  with  the  quickness  of  a  republican  Greek,  trained 
from  earliest  youth  to  sympathy  with  popular  assemblies,  saw 
that  Uliades  had  touched  the  right  key,  and  swallowed  down 
with  a  passionate  gulp  his  personal  wrath  against  his  rival,  which 
might  otherwise  have  been  carried  too  far,  and  have  lost  him 
the  advantage  he  had  gained. 

"Rightly  and  wisely  speaks  Uliades,"  said  he.  "  Our  cause 
is  that  of  our  whole  race  ;  and  clear  has  that  true  Samian  made 
it  to  you  all,  O  lonians  and  captains  of  the  seas,  that  we  must 
not  wait  for  the  lordly  answer  Sparta  may  return  to  our  embas- 
sage.  Ye  know  that  while  night  lasts  we  must  return  to  our 
several  vessels  ;  an  hour  more,  and  we  shall  be  on  deck.  To- 
morrow Pausanias  reviews  the  fleet,  and  we  may  be  some  days 
before  we  return  to  land,  and  can  meet  in  concert.  Whether 
to-morrow  or  later  the  occasion  for  action  may  present  itself 
is  a  question  I  would  pray  you  to  leave  to  those  whom  you 
entrust  with  the  discretionary  power  to  act." 

"  How  act  ?  "  cried  a  Lesbian  officer. 

"Thus  would  I  suggest,"  said  Antagoras,  with  well  dis- 
sembled humility  :  "  let  the  captains  of  one  or  more  Ionian 
vessels  perform  such  a  deed  of  open  defiance  against  Pausanias 
as  leaves  to  them  no  option  between  death  and  success  ;  hav- 
ing so  done,  hoist  a  signal,  and  sailing  at  once  to  the  Athenian 
ships,  place  themselves  under  the  Athenian  leader  ;  all  the  rest 
of  the  Ionian  captains  will  then  follow  their  example.  And 
then,  too  numerous  and  too  powerful  to  be  punished  for  a 
revolt,  we  shall  proclaim  a  revolution,  and  declare  that  we  will 
all  sail  back  to  our  native  havens  unless  we  have  the  liberty  of 
choosing  our  own  hegemon." 

"But,"  said  the  Lesbian  who  had  before  spoken,  "the 
Athenians  as  yet  have  held  back  and  declined  our  overtures, 
and  without  them  we  are  not  strong  enough  to  cope  with  the 
Peloponnesian  allies." 

"  The  Athenians  will  be  compelled  to  protect  the  lonians,  if 
the  lonians  in  sufficient  force  demand  it,"  said  Uliades.  "  For 
as  we  are  nought  without  them,  they  are  nought  without  us. 
Take  the  course  suggested  by  Antagoras  :  I  advise  it.  Ye  know 
me,  a  plain  man,  but  I  speak  not  without  warrant.  And  before 
the  Spartans  can  either  contemptuously  dismiss  our  embassy  or 


Il6  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

send  us  out  another  general,  the  Ionian  will  be  the  mistress  of  the 
Hellenic  seas,  and  Sparta,  the  land  of  oligarchies,  will  no  more 
have  the  power  to  oligarchize  democracy.  Otherwise,  believe 
me,  that  power  she  has  now  from  her  hegemony,  and  that 
power,  whenever  it  suit  her,  she  will  use." 

Uliades  was  chiefly  popular  in  the  fleet  as  a  rough,  good  sea- 
man, as  a  blunt  and  somewhat  vulgar  humorist.  But  whenever 
he  gave  advice,  the  advice  carried  with  it  a  weight  not  always 
bestowed  upon  superior  genius,  because,  from  the  very  com- 
monness of  his  nature,  he  reached  at  the  common  sense  and 
the  common  feelings  of  those  whom  he  addressed.  He  spoke, 
in  short,  what  an  ordinary  man  thought  and  felt.  He  was  a 
practical  man,  brave  but  not  over-audacious,  not  likely  to  run 
himself  or  others  into  idle  dangers,  and  when  he  said  he  had 
a  warrant  for  his  advice,  he  was  believed  to  speak  from  his 
knowledge  of  the  course  which  the  Athenian  chiefs,  Aristides 
and  Cimon,  would  pursue  if  the  plan  recommended  were 
actively  executed. 

"  I  am  convinced,"  said  the  Lesbian.  "And  since  all  are 
grateful  to  Athens  for  that  final  stand  against  the  Mede,  to 
which  all  Greece  owes  her  liberties,  and  since  the  chief  of  her 
armaments  here  is  a  man  of  so  modest  a  virtue,  and  so  clement 
a  justice,  as  we  all  acknowledge  in  Aristides,  fitting  is  it  for 
us  lonians  to  constitute  Athens  the  maritime  sovereign  of  our 
race." 

"  Are  ye  all  of  that  mind  ? "  cried  Antagoras,  and  was 
answered  by  the  universal  shout,  "  We  are — all  !  "  or  if  the 
shout  was  not  universal,  none  heeded  the  few  whom  fear  or 
prudence  might  keep  silent.  "  All  that  remains  then  is  to 
appoint  the  captain  who  shall  hazard  the  first  danger  and  make 
the  first  signal.  For  my  part,  as  one  of  the  electors,  I  give  my 
vote  for  Uliades,  and  this  is  my  ballot."  He  took  from  his 
temples  the  poplar  wreath,  and  cast  it  into  the  silver  vase  on  the 
tripod  placed  before  him. 

"  Uliades  by  acclamation  !  "  cried  several  voices. 

"  I  accept,"  said  the  Ionian,  ''  and  as  Ulysses,  a  prudent 
man,  asked  for  a  colleague  in  enterprises  of  danger,  so  I  ask 
for  a  companion  in  the  hazard  I  undertake,  and  I  select  Anta- 
goras." 

This  choice  received  the  same  applauding  acquiescence  as 
that  which  had  greeted  the  nomination  of  the  Ionian. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  applause  was  heard  without  the  sharp, 
shrill  sound  of  the  Phrygian  pipe. 

"Comrades,"  said  Antagoras,  "ye  hear  the  summons  to  our 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  li^ 

ships  ?  Our  boats  are  waiting  at  the  steps  of  the  quay,  by  the 
Temple  of  Neptune.  Two  sentences  more,  and  then  to  sea. 
First,  silence  and  fidelity  ;  the  finger  to  the  lip,  the  right  hand 
raised  to  Zeus  Horkios.  For  a  pledge,  here  is  an  oath.  Sec- 
ondly, be  this  the  signal :  whenever  ye  shall  see  Uliades  and 
myself  steer  our  triremes  out  of  the  line  in  which  they  may  be 
marshalled,  look  forth  and  watch  breathless,  and  the  instant  you 
perceive  that  beside  our  flags  of  Samos  and  Chios  we  hoist  the 
ensign  of  Athens,  draw  off  from  your  stations,  and  follow  the 
wake  of  our  keels,  to  the  Athenian  navy.  Then,  as  the  Gods 
direct  us.  Hark,  a  second  time  shrills  the  fife." 


CHAPTER  V. 

AT  the  very  hour  when  the  Ionian  captains  were  hurrying 
towards  their  boats,  Pausanias  was  pacing  his  decks  alone,  with 
irregular  strides,  and  through  the  cordage  and  the  masts  the 
starshine  came  fitfully  on  his  troubled  features.  Long  unde- 
cided he  paused,  as  the  waves  sparkled  to  the  stroke  of  oars, 
and  beheld  the  boats  of  the  feasters  making  towards  the  divi- 
sion of  the  fleet  in  which  lay  the  navy  of  the  isles.  Farther  on, 
remote  and  still,  anchored  the  ships  of  Athens.  He  clenched 
his  hand,  and  turned  from  the  sight. 

"  To  lose  an  empire,"  he  muttered,  "and  without  a  struggle  ; 
an  empire  over  yon  mutinous  rivals,  over  yon  happy  and  envied 
Athens:  an  empire — where  its  limits? — if  Asia  puts  her  armies 
to  my  lead,  why  should  not  Asia  be  Hellenized,  rather  than 
Hellas  be  within  the  tribute  of  the  Mede?  Dull — dull,  stolid 
Sparta  !  methinks  I  could  pardon  the  slavery  thou  inflictest  on 
my  life,  didst  thou  but  leave  unshackled  my  intelligence.  But 
each  vast  scheme  to  be  thwarted,  every  thought  for  thine  own 
aggrandizement  beyond  thy  barren  rocks  met  and  inexorably 
baffled  by  a  selfish  aphorism,  a  cramping  saw — '  Sparta  is  wide 
eno'  for  Spartans.'  'Ocean  is  the  element  of  the  fickle.' 
'What  matters  the  ascendancy  of  Athens? — it  does  not  cross 
the  Isthmus.'  '  Venture  nothing  where  I  want  nothing.'  Why, 
this  is  the  soul's  prison  !  Ah,  had  I  been  born  Athenian,  I  had 
never  uttered  a  thought  against  my  country.  She  and  I  would 
have  expanded  and  aspired  together." 

Thus  arguing  with  himself,  he  at  length  confirmed  his 
resolve,  and  with  a  steadfast  step  entered  his  pavilion.  There, 
not  on  broidered  cushions,  but  by  preference  on  the  hard  floor, 
without  coverlid,  lay  Lysander  calmly  sleeping,  his  crimson 


Il8  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

warlike  cloak,  weather-stained,  partially  wrapt  around  him  ;  no 
pillow  to  his  head  but  his  own  right  arm. 

By  the  light  of  the  high  lamp  that  stood  within  the  pavilion, 
Pausanias  contemplated  the  slumberer. 

"  He  says  he  loves  me,  and  yet  can  sleep,"  he  murmured 
bitterly.  Then  seating  himself  before  a  table  he  began  to 
write,  with  slowness  and  precision,  whether  as  one  not  accus- 
tomed to  the  task  or  weighing  every  word. 

When  he  had  concluded,  he  again  turned  his  eyes  to  the 
sleeper.  "  How  tranquil !  Was  my  sleep  ever  as  serene  ?  I 
will  not  disturb  him  to  the  last." 

The  fold  of  the  curtain  was  drawn  aside,  and  Alcman  en- 
tered noiselessly. 

"  Thou  hast  obeyed  ?  "  whispered  Pausanias. 

"  Yes  ;  the  ship  is  ready,  the  wind  favors.  Hast  thou  de- 
cided ? " 

"  I  have,"  said  Pausanias,  with  compressed  lips. 

He  rose,  and  touched  Lysander  lightly,  but  the  touch  suf- 
ficed ;  the  sleeper  woke  on  the  instant,  casting  aside  slumber 
easily  as  a  garment. 

"  My  Pausanias,"  said  the  young  Spartan,  "  I  am  at  thine 
orders — shall  I  go  ?  Alas  !  I  read  thine  eye,  and  I  shall  leave 
thee  in  peril." 

"  Greater  peril  in  the  council  of  the  Ephors  and  in  the  bab- 
bling lips  of  the  hoary  Gerontes,  than  amidst  the  meeting  of 
armaments.  Thou  wilt  take  this  letter  to  the  Ephors.  I  have 
said  in  it  but  little  ;  I  have  said  that  I  confide  my  cause  to 
thee.  Remember  that  thou  insist  on  the  disgrace  to  me — the 
Heracleid,  and  through  me  to  Sparta,  that  my  recall  would 
occasion  ;  remember  that  thou  prove  that  my  alleged  harshness 
is  but  necessary  to  the  discipline  that  preserves  armies,  and  to 
the  ascendancy  of  Spartan  rule.  And  as  to  the  idle  tale  of 
Persian  prisoners  escaped,  why  thou  knowest  how  even  the 
lonians  could  make  nothing  of  that  charge.  Crowd  all  sail, 
strain  every  oar — no  ship  in  the  fleet  so  swift  as  that  which 
bears  thee.  I  care  not  for  the  few  hours'  start  the  tale-bearers 
have.  Our  Spartan  forms  are  slow  ;  they  can  scarce  have  an 
audience  ere  thou  reach.  The  Gods  speed  and  guard  thee, 
beloved  friend.  With  thee  goes  all  the  future  of  Pausanias." 

Lysander  grasped  his  hand  in  a  silence  more  eloquent  than 
words,  and  a  tear  fell  on  that  hand  which  he  clasped.  "  Be 
not  ashamed  of  it,"  he  said  then,  as  he  turned  away,  and, 
wrapping  his  cloak  round  his  face,  left  the  pavilion.  Alcman 
followed,  lowered  a  boat  from  the  side,  and  in  a  few  moments 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  119 

the  Spartan  and  the  Mothon  were  on  the  sea.  The  boat  made 
to  a  vessel  close  at  hand — a  vessel  builded  in  Cyprus,  manned 
by  Bithynians  ;  its  sails  were  all  up,  but  it  bore  no  flag. 
Scarcely  had  Lysander  climbed  the  deck  than  it  heaved  to 
and  fro,  swaying  as  the  anchor  was  drawn  up, — then,  righting 
itself,  sprang  forward  like  a  hound  unleashed  for  the  chase. 
Pausanias  with  folded  arms  stood  on  the  deck  of  his  own 
vessel,  gazing  after  it,  gazing  long,  till  shooting  far  beyond  the 
fleet,  far  towards  the  melting  line  between  sea  and  sky,  it  grew 
less  and  lesser,  and  as  the  twilight  dawned,  it  had  faded  into 
space. 

The  Heracleid  turned  to  Alcman,  who,  after  he  had  conveyed 
Lysander  to  the  ship,  had  regained  his  master's  side. 

"  What  thinkest  thou,  Alcman,  will  be  the  result  of  all  this?" 

"  The  emancipation  of  the  Helots,"  said  the  Mothon  quietly. 
"  The  Athenians  are  too  near  thee,  the  Persians  are  too  far. 
Wouldst  thou  have  armies  Sparta  can  neither  give  nor  take 
away  from  thee,  bind  to  thee  a  race  by  the  strongest  of  human 
ties — make  them  see  in  thy  power  the  necessary  condition  of 
their  freedom." 

Pausanias  made  no  answer.  He  turned  within  his  pavilion, 
and  flinging  himself  down  on  the  same  spot  from  which  he  had 
disturbed  Lysander,  said  :  "  Sleep  here  was  so  kind  to  him 
that  it  may  linger  where  he  left  it.  I  have  two  hours  yet  for 
oblivion  before  the  sun  rise." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

IF  we  were  enabled  minutely  to  examine  the  mental  organi- 
zation of  men  who  have  risked  great  dangers,  whether  by  the 
impulse  of  virtue  or  in  the  perpetration  of  crime,  we  should 
probably  find  therein  a  large  preponderance  of  hope.  By  that 
preponderance  we  should  account  for  those  heroic  designs 
which  would  annihilate  prudence  as  a  calculator,  did  not  a 
sanguine  confidence  in  the  results  produce  special  energies  to 
achieve  them,  and  thus  create  a  prudence  of  its  own,  being  as 
it  were  the  self-conscious  admeasurement  of  the  diviner  strength 
which  justified  the  preterhuman  spring.  Nor  less  should  we 
account  by  the  same  cause  for  that  audacity  which  startles  us 
in  criminals  on  a  colossal  scale,  which  blinds  them  to  the  risks 
of  detection,  and  often  at  the  bar  of  justice,  while  the  evidences 
that  ensure  condemnation  are  thickening  round  them,  with  the 
persuasion  of  acquittal  or  escape.  Hope  is  thus  alike  the  sub- 


120  PAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

lime  inspirer  or  the  arch  -corrupter  ;  it  is  the  foe  of  terror,  the 
defier  yf  consequences,  the  buoyant  gamester  which  at  every 
loss  doubles  the  stakes,  with  a  firm  hand  rattles  the  dice,  and, 
invoking  ruin,  cries  within  itself:  "How  shall  I  expend  the 
gain  ? " 

In  the  character,  therefore,  of  a  man  like  Pausanias,  risking 
so  much  glory,  daring  so  much  peril,  strong  indeed  must  have 
been  this  sanguine  motive-power  of  human  action.  Nor  is  a 
large  and  active  development  of  hope  incompatible  with  a  tem- 
perament habitually  grave  and  often  profoundly  melancholy. 
For  hope  itself  is  often  engendered  by  discontent.  A  vigorous 
nature  keenly  susceptible  to  joy,  and  deprived  of  the  possession 
of  the  joy  it  yearns  for  by  circumstances  that  surround  it  in 
the  present,  is  goaded  on  by  its  impatience  and  dissatisfaction  ; 
it  hopes  for  the  something  it  has  not  got,  indifferent  to  the 
things  it  possesses,  and  saddened  by  the  want  which  it  experi- 
ences. And  therefore  it  has  been  well  said  by  philosophers, 
that  real  happiness  would  exclude  desire  ;  in  other  words,  not 
only  at  the  gates  of  hell,  but  at  the  porch  of  heaven,  he  who 
entered  would  leave  hope  behind  him.  For  perfect  bliss  is  but 
supreme  content.  And  if  content  could  say  to  itself,  "  But  I 
hope  for  something  more,"  it  would  destroy  its  own  existence. 

From  his  brief  slumber  the  Spartan  rose  refreshed.  The 
trumpets  were  sounding  near  him,  and  the  very  sound  bright- 
ened his  aspect,  and  animated  his  spirits. 

Agreeably  to  orders  he  had  given  the  night  before,  the  anchor 
was  raised,  the  rowers  were  on  their  benches,  the  libation  to 
the  Carnean  Apollo,  under  whose  special  protection  the  ship 
was  placed,  had  been  poured  forth,  and  with  the  rising  sea  and 
to  the  blare  of  trumpets  the  gorgeous  trireme  moved  forth  from 
the  bay. 

It  moved,  as  the  trumpets  ceased,  to  the  note  of  a  sweeter, 
but  not  less  exciting,  music.  For,  according  to  Hellenic 
custom,  to  the  rowers  was  allotted  a  musician,  with  whose 
harmony  their  oars,  when  first  putting  forth  to  sea,  kept  time. 
And  on  this  occasion  Alcman  superseded  the  wonted  performer 
by  his  own  more  popular  song  and  the  melody  of  his  richer 
voice.  Standing  by  the  mainmast,  and  holding  the  large  harp, 
which  was  stricken  by  the  quill,  its  strings  being  deepened  by  a 
sounding-board,  he  chanted  an  lo  Paean  to  the  Dorian  god  of 
light  and  poesy.  The  harp  at  stated  intervals  was  supported 
by  a  burst  of  flutes,  and  the  burthen  of  the  verse  was  caught 
up  by  the  rowers  as  in  chorus.  Thus,  far  and  wide  over  the 
shining  waves,  went  forth  the  hymn  : 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  121 

To,  lo  Paean  !  slowly.     Song  and  oar  must  chime  together : 
lo,  lo  Paean  !  by  what  title  call  Apollo  ? 
Clarian  ?     Xanthian  ?     Boedromian  ? 
Countless  are  thy  names,  Apollo. 
lo  Carne'e  !     lo  Carne'e  ! 
By  the  marge nt  of  Eurotas, 
'Neaih  the  shadows  of  Taygetus, 
Thee  the  sons  of  Lacedsemon 
Name  Carneus.     lo,  lo  ! 
lo  Carne'e  !     lo  Carne'e  ! 

lo,  lo  Paean  !  quicker.     Song  and  voice  must  chime  together  : 
lo  Psean  !     lo  Paean  !     King  Apollo,  lo,  lo  ! 
lo  Caine'e  ! 

For  thine  altars  do  the  seasons 

Paint  the  tributary  flowers, 

Spring  thy  hyacinih  restores, 

Summer  greets  thee  with  the  rose, 

Autumn  the  blue  Cyane  mingles 

With  the  coronals  of  corn, 

And  in  every  wreath  thy  laurel 
Weaves  its  everlasting  green. 

lo  Carne'e  !     lo  Carne'e  ! 

For  the  brows  Apollo  favors 

Spring  and  winter  does  the  laurel 

Weave  its  everlasting  green. 

lo,  lo  Paean  !  louder.     Voice  and  oar  must  chime  together : 
For  the  brows  Apollo  favors 
Even  Ocean  bears  the  laurel. 
lo  Carne'e  !     lo  Carne'e  ! 

lo,  lo  Psean  !  stronger.     Strong  are  those  who  win  the  laurel. 

As  the  ship  of  the  Spartan  commander  thus  bore  out  to  sea, 
the  other  vessels  of  the  armament  had  been  gradually  forming 
themselves  into  a  crescent,  preserving  still  the  order  in  which 
the  allies  maintained  their  several  contributions  to  the  fleet,  the 
Athenian  ships  at  the  extreme  end  occupying  the  right  wing, 
the  Peloponnesians  massed  together  at  the  left. 

The  Chian  galleys  adjoined  the  Samian  ;  for  Uliades  and 
Antagoras  had  contrived  that  their  ships  should  be  close  to 
each  other,  so  that  they  might  take  counsel  at  any  moment  and 
act  in  concert. 

And  now  when  the  fleet  had  thus  opened  its  arms  as  it  were 
to  receive  the  commander,  the  great  trireme  of  Pausanias  began 
to  veer  round,  and  to  approach  the  half-moon  of  the  expanded 
armament.  On  it  came,  with  its  beaked  brow,  like  a  falcon 
swooping  down  on  some  array  of  the  lesser  birds. 

From  the  stern  hung  a  gilded  shield  and  a  crimson  pen- 
non. The  heavy  armed  soldiers  in  their  Spartan  mail  occupied 


122  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

the  centre  of  the  vessel,  and  the  sun  shone  full  upon  their 
armor. 

"  By  Pallas  the  guardian,"  said  Cimon,  "  it  is  the  Athenian 
vessels  that  the  strategus  honors  with  his  first  visit." 

And  indeed  the  Spartan  galley  now  came  alongside  that  of 
Aristides,  the  admiral  of  the  Athenian  navy. 

The  soldiers  on  board  the  former  gave  way  on  either  side. 
And  a  murmur  of  admiration  circled  through  the  Athenian 
ship  as  Pausanias  suddenly  appeared.  For,  as  it  bent  that  day 
on  either  awing  mutiny  or  conciliating  the  discontented,  the 
Spartan  chief  had  wisely  laid  aside  the  wondrous  Median  robes. 
He  stood  on  her  stern  in  the  armor  he  had  worn  at  Plataea, 
resting  one  hand  upon  his  shield,  which  itself  rested  on  the 
deck.  His  head  alone  was  uncovered,  his  long  sable  locks 
gathered  up  into  a  knot,  in  the  Spartan  fashion,  a  crest  as  it 
were  in  itself  to  that  lofty  head.  And  so  imposing  were  his 
whole  air  and  carriage,  that  Cimon,  gazing  at  him,  muttered  ; 
"  What  profane  hand  will  dare  to  rob  that  demigod  of  com- 
mand ?" 

CHAPTER  VII. 

PAUSANIAS  came  on  board  the  vessel  of  the  Athenian  admiral, 
attended  by  the  five  Spartan  chiefs  who  have  been  mentioned 
before  as  the  warlike  companions  assigned  to  him.  He  relaxed 
the  haughty  demeanor  which  had  given  so  much  displeasure, 
adopting  a  tone  of  marked  courtesy.  He  spoke  with  high  and 
merited  praise  of  the  seaman-like  appearance  of  the  Athenian 
crews,  and  the  admirable  build  and  equipment  of  their  vessels. 

"  Pity  only,"  said  he,  smiling,  "  that  we  have  no  Persians  on 
the  ocean  now,  and  that  instead  of  their  visiting  us  we  must  go 
in  search  of  them." 

"  Would  that  be  wise  on  our  part  ?  "  said  Aristides.  "  Is 
not  Greece  large  enough  for  Greeks  ?  " 

"Greece  has  not  done  growing,"  answered  the  Spartan; 
"and  the  Gods  forbid  that  she  should  do  so.  When  man 
ceases  to  grow  in  height  he  expands  in  bulk  ;  when  he  stops 
there  too,  the  frame  begins  to  stoop,  the  muscles  to  shrink,  the 
skin  to  shrivel,  and  decrepit  old  age  steals  on.  I  have  heard  it 
said  of  the  Athenians  that  they  think  nothing  done  while  aught 
remains  to  do.  Is  it  not  truly  said,  worthy  son  of  Miltiades?" 

Cimon  bowed  his  head.  "  General,  I  cannot  disavow  the 
sentiment.  But  if  Greece  entered  Asia,  would  it  not  be  as  a 
river  that  runs  into  a  sea  ?  It  expands,  and  is  merged." 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  t2$ 

"  The  river,  Cimon,  may  lose  the  sweetness  of  its  wave  and 
take  the  brine  of  the  sea.  But  the  Greek  can  never  lose  the 
flavor  of  the  Greek  genius,  and  could  he  penetrate  the  universe, 
the  universe  would  be  Hellenized.  But  if,  O  Athenian  chiefs, 
ye  judge  that  we  have  now  done  all  that  is  needful  to  protect 
Athens,  and  awe  the  Barbarian,  ye  must  be  longing  to  retire 
from  the  armament  and  return  to  your  homes." 

"When  it  is  fit  that  we  should  return,  we  shall  be  recalled," 
said  Aristides  quietly. 

"  What,  is  your  State  so  unerring  in  its  judgment  ?  Experi- 
ence does  not  permit  me  to  think  so,  for  it  ostracized  Aristides.'' 

"  An  honor,"  replied  the  Athenian,  "  that  I  did  not  deserve, 
but  an  action  that,  had  I  been  the  adviser  of  those  who  sent 
me  forth,  I  should  have  opposed  as  too  lenient.  Instead  of 
ostracizing  me,  they  should  have  cast  both  myself  and  Themis- 
tocles  into  the  Barathrum." 

"  You  speak  with  true  Attic  honor,  and  I  comprehend  that 
where,  in  commonwealths  constituted  like  yours,  party  runs 
high,  and  the  State  itself  is  shaken,  ostracism  may  be  a  neces- 
sary tribute  to  the  very  virtues  that  attract  the  zeal  of  a  party 
and  imperil  the  equality  ye  so  prize.  But  what  can  compen- 
sate to  a  State  for  the  evil  of  depriving  itself  of  its  greatest 
citizens?  " 

"  Peace  and  freedom,"  said  Aristides.  "  If  you  would  have 
the  young  trees  thrive  you  must  not  let  one  tree  be  so  large  as 
to  overshadow  them.  Ah,  general  at  Plataea,"  added  the  Athe- 
nian in  a  benignant  whisper,  for  the  grand  image  before  him 
moved  his  heart  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  generous  admiration 
and  prophetic  pity,  "  ah,  pardon  me  if  I  remind  thee  of  the 
ring  of  Polycrates,  and  say  that  Fortune  is  a  queen  that  requires 
tribute.  Man  should  tremble  most  when  most  seemingly  for- 
tune-favored, and  guard  most  against  a  fall  when  his  rise  is  at 
the  highest." 

"  But  it  is  only  at  its  highest  flight  that  the  eagle  is  safe  from 
the  arrow,"  answered  Pausanias. 

"And  the  nest  the  eagle  has  forgotten  in  her  soaring  is  the 
more  exposed  to  the  spoiler." 

"  Well,  my  nest  is  in  rocky  Sparta  ;  hardy  the  spoiler  who 
ventures  thither.  Yet,  to  descend  from  these  speculative  com- 
parisons, it  seems  that  thou  hast  a  friendly  and  meaning  pur- 
pose in  thy  warnings.  Thou  knowest  that  there  are  in  this 
armament  men  who  grudge  to  me  whatever  I  now  owe  to  For- 
tune ;  who  would  topple  me  from  the  height  to  which  I  did  not 
climb,  but  was  led  by  the  congregated  Greeks,  and  who,  while 


124  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAK. 

perhaps  they  are  forging  arrow-heads  for  the  eagle,  have  sent 
to  place  poison  and  a  snare  in  its  distant  nest.  SotheNausicaa 
is  on  its  voyage  to  Sparta,  conveying  to  the  Ephors  complaints 
against  me — complaints  from  men  who  fought  by  my  side 
against  the  Mede." 

"  I  have  heard  that  a  Cyprian  vessel  left  the  fleet  yesterday, 
bound  to  Laconia.  I  have  heard  that  it  does  bear  men  charged 
by  some  of  the  lonians  with  representations  unfavorable  to  the 
continuance  of  thy  command.  It  bears  none  from  me  as  the 
Nauarclms  of  the  Athenians.  But — " 
But — what  ?  " 

But  I  have  complained  to  thyself,  Pausanias,  in  vain." 
Hast  thou  complained  of  late,  and  in  vain?" 
Nay." 

Honest  men  may  err  ;  if  they  amend,  do  just  men  continue 
to  accuse?  " 

"  I  do  not  accuse,  Pausanias,  I  but  imply  that  those  who  do 
may  have  a  cause,  but  it  will  be  heard  before  a  tribunal  of 
thine  own  countrymen,  and  doubtless  thou  has  sent  to  the  tri- 
bunal those  who  may  meet  the  charge  on  thy  behalf." 

"  Well,"  said  Pausanias,  still  preserving  his  studied  urbanity 
and  lofty  smile,  "  even  Agamemnon  and  Achilles  quarrelled, 
but  Greece  took  Troy  not  the  less.  And  at  least,  since  Aris- 
tides  does  not  denounce  me,  if  I  have  committed  even  worse 
faults  than  Agamemnon,  I  have  not  made  an  enemy  of  Achilles. 
And  if,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "if  some  of  these  lonians, 
not  waiting  for  the  return  of  their  envoys,  openly  mutiny,  they 
must  be  treated  as  Thersites  was."  Then  he  hurried  on  quickly, 
for  observing  that  Cimon's  brow  lowered,  and  his  lips  quivered, 
he  desired  to  cut  off  all  words  that  might  lead  to  altercation. 

"  But  I  have  a  request  to  ask  of  the  Athenian  Nauarchus. 
Will  you  gratify  myself  and  the  fleet  by  putting  your  Athenian 
triremes  into  play?  Your  seamen  are  so  famous  for  their 
manoeuvres,  that  they  might  furnish  us  with  sports  of  more 
grace  and  agility  than  do  the  Lydian  dancers.  Landsman 
though  I  be,  no  sight  more  glads  mine  eye  than  these  sea  lions 
of  pine  and  brass,  bounding  under  the  yoke  of  their  tamers.  I 
presume  not  to  give  thee  instructions  what  to  perform.  Who 
can  dictate  to  the  seamen  of  Salamis  ?  But  when  your  ships 
have  played  out  their  martial  sport,  let  them  exchange  stations 
with  the  Peloponnesian  vessels,  and  occupy  for  the  present  the 
left  of  the  armament.  Ye  object  not  ?  " 

"  Place  us  where  thou  wilt,  as  was  said  to  thee  at  Plataea," 
answered  Aristides. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  125 

"  I  now  leave  ye  to  prepare,  Athenians,  and  greet  ye,  saying, 
the  Good  to  the  Beautiful." 

"  A  wondrous  presence  for  a  Greek  commander  !  "  said 
Cimon,  as  Pausanias  again  stood  on  the  stern  of  his  own  ves- 
sel, which  moved  off  towards  the  ships  of  the  islands. 

"And  no  mean  capacity,"  returned  Aristides.  "See  you  not 
his  object  in  transplacing  us  ?  " 

"  Ha,  truly  ;  in  case  of  mutiny  on  board  the  Ionian  ships,  he 
separates  them  from  Athens.  But  woe  to  him  if  he  thinks  in 
his  heart  that  an  Ionian  is  a  Thersites,  to  be  silenced  by  the 
blow  of  a  sceptre.  Meanwhile  let  the  Greeks  see  what  man- 
ner .of  seamen  are  the  Athenians.  Methinks  this  game  or- 
dained to  us  is  a  contest  before  Neptune,  and  for  a  crown." 

Pausanius  bore  right  on  towards  the  vessels  from  the  ^Egean 
Isles.  Their  masts  and  prows  were  heavy  with  garlands,  but 
no  music  sounded  from  their  decks,  no  welcoming  shout  from 
their  crews. 

"  Son  of  Cleombrotus,"  said  the  prudent  Erasinidas,  "  sullen 
dogs  bite.  Unwise  the  stranger  who  trusts  himself  to  their 
kennel.  Pass  not  to  those  triremes  ;  let  the  captains,  if  thou 
wantest  them,  come  to  thee." 

Pausanius  replied  :  "  Dogs  fear  the  steady  eye  and  spring  at 
the  recreant  back.  Helmsman,  steer  to  yonder  ship  with  the 
olive  tree  on  the  Parasemon,  and  the  image  of  Bacchus  on  the 
guardian  standard.  It  is  the  ship  of  Antagoras  the  Chian 
captain." 

Pausanius  turned  to  his  warlike  Five.  "  This  time,  forgive 
me,  I  go  alone."  And  before  their  natural  Spartan  slowness 
enabled  them  to  combat  this  resolution,  their  leader  was  by  the 
side  of  his  rival,  alone  in  the  Chian  vessel,  and  surrounded  by 
his  sworn  foes. 

"Antagoras,"  said  the  Spartan,  "a  Chian  seaman's  ship  is 
his  dearest  home.  I  stand  on  thy  deck  as  at  thy  hearth,  and 
ask  thy  hospitality  ;  a  crust  of  thy  honied  bread,  and  a  cup  of 
thy  Chian  wine.  For  from  thy  ship  I  would  see  the  Athenian 
vessels  go  through  their  nautical  gymnastics." 

The  Chian  turned  pale  and  trembled ;  his  vengeance  was 
braved  and  foiled.  He  was  powerless  against  the  man  who  had 
trusted  to  his  honor,  and  asked  to  break  of  his  bread  and  drink 
of  his  cup.  Pausanius  did  not  appear  to  heed  the  embarrass- 
ment of  his  unwilling  host,  but  turning  round,  addressed  some 
careless  words  to  the  soldiers  on  the  raised  central  platform, 
and  then  quietly  seated  himself,  directing  his  eyes  towards  the 
Athenian  ships.  Upon  these  all  the  sails  were  novr  lowered. 


126  TAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

In  nice  manoeuvres  the  seamen  preferred  trusting  to  their  oars. 
Presently  one  vessel  started  forth,  and  with  a  swiftness  that 
seemed  to  increase  at  every  stroke. 

A  table  was  brought  upon  the  deck  and  placed  before  Pau- 
sanias,  and  the-  slaves  began  to  serve  to  him  such  light  food  as 
sufficed  to  furnish  the  customary  meal  of  the  Greeks  in  the 
earlier  forenoon. 

"But  where  is  mine  host?"  asked  the  Spartan.  "Does 
Antagoras  himself  not  deign  to  share  a  meal  with  his  guest?" 

On  receiving  the  message,  Antagoras  had  no  option  but  to 
come  forward.  The  Spartan  eyed  him  deliberately,  and  the 
young  Chian  felt  with  secret  rage  the  magic  of  that  command- 
ing eye. 

Pausanius  motioned  to  him  to  be  seated,  making  room  beside 
himself.  The  Chian  silently  obeyed. 

"  Antagoras,"  said  the  Spartan  in  a  low  voice,  "thou  art 
doubtless  one  of  those  who  have  already  infringed  the  laws  of 
military  discipline  and  obedience.  Interrupt  me  not  yet.  A 
vessel  without  waiting  my  permission  has  left  the  fleet  with 
accusations  against  me,  thy  commander  ;  of  what  nature  I  am 
not  even  advised.  Thou  wilt  scarcely  deny  that  thou  art  one 
of  those  who  sent  forth  the  ship  and  shared  in  the  accusations. 
Yet  I  had  thought  that  if  I  had  ever  merited  thine  ill  will,  there 
had  been  reconciliation  between  us-in  the  Council  Hall.  What 
has  chanced  since  ?  Why  shouldst  thou  hate  me  ?  Speak 
frankly  ;  frankly  have  I  spoken  to  thee." 

"  General,"  replied  Antagoras,  "  there  is  no  hegemony  over 
men's  hearts  ;  thou  sayest  truly,  as  man  to  man,  I  hate  thee. 
Wherefore?  Because  as  man  to  man,  thou  standest  between 
me  and  happiness.  Because  thou  wooest,  and  canst  only  woo 
to  dishonor,  the  virgin  in  whom  I  would  seek  the  sacred  wife." 

Pausanius  slightly  recoiled,  and  the  courtesy  he  had  simu- 
lated, and  which  was  essentially  foreign  to  his  vehement  and 
haughty  character,  fell  from  him  like  a  mask.  For  with  the  words 
of  Antagoras,  jealousy  passed  within  him,  and  for  the  moment  its 
agony  was  such  that  the  Chian  was  avenged.  But  he  was  too 
habituated  to  the  stateliness  of  self-control  to  give  vent  to  the 
rage  that  seized  him.  He  only  said  with  a  whitened  and 
writhing  lip  :  "  Thou  art  right  ;  all  animosities  may  yield  save 
those  which  a  woman's  eye  can  kindle.  Thou  hatest  me — be 
it  so — that  is  as  man  to  man.  But  as  officer  to  chieftain,  I  bid 
thee  henceforth  beware  how  thou  givest  me  cause  to  set  this 
foot  on  the  head  that  lifts  itself  to  the  height  of  mine." 

With  that  he  rose,  turned  pn  his  heel,  and  walked  towards 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  127 

the  stern,  where  he  stood  apart  gazing  on  the  Athenian  tri- 
remes, which  by  this  time  were  in  the  broad  sea.  And  all  the 
eyes  in  the  fleet  were  turned  towards  that  exhibition.  For 
marvellous  was  the  ease  and  beauty  with  which  these  ships 
went  through  their  nautical  movements  ;  now  as  if  in  chase  of 
each  other,  now  approaching  as  in  conflict,  veering  off,  darting 
aside,  threading  as  it  were  a  harmonious  maze,  gliding  in  and 
out,  here,  there,  with  the  undulous  celerity  of  the  serpent. 
The  admirable  build  of  the  ships  ;  the  perfect  skill  of  the  sea- 
men ;  the  noiseless  docility  and  instinctive  comprehension  by 
which  they  seemed  to  seize  and  obey  the  unforeseen  signals  of 
their  Admiral — all  struck  the  lively  Greeks  that  beheld  the 
display,  and  universal  was  the  thought  if  not  the  murmur, 
There  was  the  power  that  should  command  the  Grecian  seas. 

Pausanius  was  too  much  accustomed  to  the  sway  of  masses 
not  to  have  acquired  that  electric  knowledge  of  what  circles 
amongst  them  from  breast  to  breast,  to  which  habit  gives  the 
quickness  of  an  instinct.  He  saw  that  he  had  committed  an 
imprudence,  and  that,  in  seeking  to  divert  a  mutiny,  he  had 
incurred  a  yet  greater  peril. 

He  returned  to  his  own  ship  without  exchanging  another 
word  with  Antagoras,  who  had  retired  to  the  centre  of  the  vessel, 
fearing  to  trust  himself  to  a  premature  utterance  of  that  defi- 
ance which  the  last  warning  of  his  chief  provoked,  and  who 
was  therefore  arousing  the  soldiers  to  louder  shouts  of  admira- 
tion at  the  Athenian  skill. 

Rowing  back  towards  the  wing  occupied  by  the  Pelopon- 
nesian  allies,  of  whose  loyalty  he  was  assured,  Pausanius  then 
summoned  on  board  their  principal  officer,  and  communicated 
to  him  his  policy  of  placing  the  lonians  not  only  apart  from 
the  Athenians,  but  under  the  vigilance  and  control  of  Pelo- 
ponnesian  vessels  in  the  immediate  neighborhood.  "  There- 
fore," said  he,  "  while  the  Athenians  will  occupy  this  wing,  I 
wish  you  to  divide  yourselves  ;  the  Lacedsmonian  ships  will 
take  the  way  the  Athenians  abandon,  but  the  Corinthian  tri- 
remes will  place  themselves  between  the  ships  of  the  Islands 
and  the  Athenians.  I  shall  give  further  orders  towards  distrib- 
uting the  Ionian  navy.  And  thus  I  trust  either  all  chance  of 
a  mutiny  is  cut  off,  or  it  will  be  put  down  at  the  first  outbreak. 
Now  give  orders  to  your  men  to  take  the  places  thus  assigned 
to  you.  And  having  gratified  the  vanity  of  our  friends  the 
Athenians  by  their  holiday  evolutions,  I  shall  send  to  thank 
and  release  them  from  the  fatigue  so  gracefully  borne." 

All  those  with  whom  he  here  conferred,  and  who  had  no 


128  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

love  for  Athens  or  lona,  readily  fell  into  the  plan  suggested. 
Pausanias  then  despatched  a  Laconian  vessel  to  the  Athenian 
Admiral,  with  complimentary  messages  and  orders  to  cease  the 
manoeuvres,  and  then  heading  the  rest  of  the  Laconian  con- 
tingent, made  slow  and  stately  way  towards  the  station  deserted 
by  the  Athenians.  But  pausing  once  more  before  the  vessels 
of  the  Isles,  he  despatched  orders  to  their  several  commanders, 
which  had  the  effect  of  dividing  their  array,  and  placing 
between  them  the  powerful  Corinthian  service.  In  the  orders 
of  the  vessels  he  forwarded  for  this  charge,  he  took  special  care 
to  dislocate  the  dangerous  contiguity  of  the  Samian  and  Chian 
triremes. 

The  sun  was  declining  towards  the  west  when  Pausanias  had 
marshalled  the  vessels  he  headed,  at  their  new  stations,  and 
the  Athenian  ships  were  already  anchored  close  and  secured. 
But  there  was  an  evident  commotion  in  that  part  of  the  fleet 
to  which  the  Corinthian  galleys  had  sailed.  The  lonians  had 
received  with  indignant  murmurs  the  command  which  divided 
their  strength.  Under  various  pretexts  each  vessel  delayed  to 
move  ;  and  when  the  Corinthian  ships  came  to  take  a  vacant 
space,  they  found  a  formidable  array — the  soldiers  on  the  plat- 
forms armed  to  the  teeth.  The  confusion  was  visible  to  the 
Spartan  chief ;  the  loud  hubbub  almost  reached  to  his  ears. 
He  hastened  towards  the  place  ;  but  anxious  to  continue  the 
gracious  part  he  had  so  unwontedly  played  that  day,  he  cleared 
his  decks  of  their  formidable  hoplites,  lest  he  might  seem  to 
meet  menace  by  menace,  and  drafting  them  into  other  vessels, 
and  accompanied  only  by  his  personal  serving-men  and  rowers, 
he  put  forth  alone,  the  gilded  shield  and  the  red  banner  still 
displayed  at  his  stera. 

But  as  he  was  thus  conspicuous  and  solitary,  and  midway  in 
the  space  left  between  the  Laconian  and  Ionian  galleys,  sud- 
denly two  ships  from  the  latter  darted  forth,  passed  through 
the  centre  of  the  Corinthian  contingent,  and  steered  with  the 
force  of  all  their  rowers,  right  towards  the  Spartan's  ship. 

"  Surely,"  said  Pausanias,  "  that  is  the  Chian's  vessel.  I 
recognize  the  vine  tree  and  the  image  of  the  Bromian  god  ; 
and  surely  that  other  one  is  the  Chimera  under  Uliades,  the 
Samian.  They  come  hither,  the  Ionian  with  them,  to  harangue 
against  obedience  to  my  orders." 

"  They  come  hither  to  assault  us,"  exclaimed  Erasinidas  ; 
"  their  beaks  are  right  upon  us." 

He  had  scarcely  spoken  when  the  Chian's  brass  prow  smote 
the  gilded  shield,  and  rent  the  red  banner  from  its  staff.  At 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  129 

the  same  time,  the  Chimera,  under  Uliades,  struck  the  right 
side  of  the  Spartan  ship,  and  with  both  strokes  the  stout  vessel 
reeled  and  dived.  "  Know,  Spartan,"  cried  Antagoras,  from 
the  platform  in  the  midst  of  his  soldiers,  "  that  we  lonians  hold 
together.  He  who  would  separate  means  to  conquer  us.  We 
disown  thy  hegemony.  If  ye  would  seek  us,  we  are  with  the 
Athenians." 

With  that  the  two  vessels,  having  performed  their  insolent 
and  daring  feat,  veered  and  shot  off  with  the  same  rapidity 
with  which  they  had  come  to  the  assault  ;  and,  as  they  did  so, 
hoisted  the  Athenian  ensign  over  their  own  national  standards. 
The  instant  that  signal  was  given,  from  the  other  Ionian  vessels, 
which  had  been  evidently  awaiting  it,  there  came  a  simulta- 
neous shout ;  and  all,  vacating  their  place  and  either  gliding 
through  or  wheeling  round  the  Corinthian  galleys,  steered 
towards  the  Athenian  fleet. 

The  trireme  of  Pausanias,  meanwhile,  sorely  damaged,  part 
•of  its  side  rent  away,  and  the  water  rushing  in,  swayed  and 
struggled  alone  in  great  peril  of  sinking. 

Instead  of  pursuing  the  lonians,  the  Corinthian  galleys  made 
at  once  to  the  aid  of  the  insulted  commander. 

"  Oh,"  cried  Pausanias,  in  powerless  wrath,  "  oh,  the  accursed 
element  !  Oh,  that  mine  enemies  had  attacked  me  on  the 
land  !  " 

"  How  are  we  to  act  ?"  said  Aristides. 

"  We  are  citizens  of  a  Republic,  in  which  the  majority  govern," 
answered  Cimon.  "  And  the  majority  here  tell  us  how  we  are 
to  act.  Hark  to  the  shouts  of  our  men,  as  they  are  opening 
way  for  their  kinsmen  of  the  Isles." 

The  sun  sank,  and  with  it  sank  the  Spartan  maritime  as- 
cendency over  Hellas.  And  from  that  hour  in  which  the 
Samian  and  the  Chian  insulted  the  galley  of  Pausanias,  if  we 
accord  weight  to  the  authority  on  which  Plutarch  must  have 
based  his  tale,  commenced  the  brief  and  glorious  sovereignty 
of  Athens.  Commence  when  and  how  it  might,  it  was  an 
epoch  most  signal  in  the  records  of  the  ancient  world  for  its 
results  upon  a  civilization  to  which  as  yet  human  foresight  can 
predict  no  end. 


130  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

BOOK    IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WE  pass  from  Byzantium  ;  we  are  in  Sparta.  In  the  Arche' 
ion,  or  office  of  the  Ephoralty,  sate  five  men,  all  somewhat 
advanced  in  years.  These  constituted  that  stern  and  terrible 
authority  which  had  gradually,  and  from  unknown  beginnings,* 
assumed  a  kind  of  tyranny  over  the  descendants  of  Hercules 
themselves.  They  were  the  representatives  of  the  Spartan 
people,  elected  without  reference  to  rank  or  wealth,!  and 
possessing  jurisdiction  not  only  over  the  Helots  and  Laconians, 
but  over  most  of  the  magistrates.  They  could  suspend  or 
terminate  any  office  ;  they  could  accuse  the  kings  and  bring 
them  before  a  court  in  which  they  themselves  were  judges 
upon  trial  of  life  and  death.  They  exercised  control  over  the 
armies  and  the  embassies  sent  abroad  ;  and  the  King,  at  the 
head  of  his  forces,  was  still  bound  to  receive  his  instructions 
from  this  Council  of  Five.  Their  duty,  in  fact,  was  to  act  as  a 
check  upon  the  kings,  and  they  were  the  representatives  of 
that  Nobility  which  embraced  the  whole  Spartan  people,  in 
contradistinction  to  the  Laconians  and  Helots. 

The  conference  in  which  they  were  engaged  seemed  to 
rivet  their  most  earnest  attention.  And  as  the  presiding  Ephor 
continued  the  observations  he  addressed  to  them,  the  rest 
listened  with  profound  and  almost  breathless  silence. 

The  speaker,  named  Periclides,  was  older  than  the  others. 
His  frame,  still  upright  and  sinewy,  was  yet  lean  almost  to 
emaciation,  his  face  sharp,  and  his  dark  eyes  gleamed  with  a 
cunning  and  sinister  light  under  his  gray  brows. 

"If,"  said  he,  "we  are  to  believe  these  lonians,  Pausanias 
meditates  deadly  injury  to  Greece.  As  for  the  complaints  of 
his  arrogance,  they  are  to  be  received  with  due  caution.  Our 
Spartans,  accustomed  to  the  peculiar  discipline  of  the  laws  of 
^Egimius,  rarely  suit  the  humors  of  lonians  and  innovators. 
The  question  to  consider  is  not  whether  he  has  been  too  impe- 
rious towards  lonians  who  were  but  the  other  day  subjected  to 

*  K.  O.  Miiller  (Dorians),  Book  3,  0.7,  §  2.  According  to  Aristotle,  Cicero,  and  others, 
the  Ephoralty  was  founded  by  Theopompus,  subsequently  to  the  mythical  time  of  Lycur- 
gus.  To  I.ycurgus  itself  it  is  referred  by  Xenophon  and  Herodotus.  Miiller  considers 
rightly  that,  though  an  ancient  Doric  institution,  it  was  incompatible  with  the  primitive 
constitution  of  I.ycurgus,  and  had  gradually  acquired  its  peculiar  character  by  causes 
operating  on  the  Spartan  State  alone. 

t  Aristot.  Pol.,  li. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN  l$i 

the  Mede,  but  whether  he  can  make  the  command  he  received 
from  Sparta  menacing  to  Sparta  herself.  We  lend  him  iron, 
he  has  holpen  himself  to  gold." 

"  Besides  the  booty  at  Plataea,  they  say  that  he  has  amassed 
much  plunder  at  Byzantium,"  said  Zeuxidamus,  one  of  the 
Ephors,  after  a  pause. 

Periclides  looked  hard  at  the  speaker,  and  the  two  men 
exchanged  a  significant  glance. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  a  third,  a  man  of  a  severe  but  noble 
countenance,  the  father  of  Lysander,  and,  what  was  not  usual 
with  the  Ephors,  belonging  to  one  of  the  highest  families  of 
Sparta,  "  I  have  always  held  that  Sparta  should  limit  its  policy 
to  self-defence  ;  that,  since  the  Persian  invasion  is  over,  we 
have  no  business  with  Byzantium.  Let  the  busy  Athenians 
obtain  if  they  will  the  empire  of  the  sea.  The  sea  is  no 
province  of  ours.  All  intercourse  with  foreigners,  Asiatics, 
and  lonians,  enervates  our  men  and  corrupts  our  generals. 
Recall  Pausanias — recall  our  Spartans.  I  have  said." 

"  Recall  Pausanias  first,"  said  Periclides,  "and  we  shall  then 
hear  the  truth,  and  decide  what  is  best  to  be  done." 

"  If  he  has  Medized,  if  he  has  conspired  against  Greece,  let 
us  accuse  him  to  the  death,"  said  Agesilaus,  Lysander's  father. 

"  We  may  accuse,  but  it  rests  not  with  us  to  sentence,"  said 
Periclides,  disapprovingly. 

"  And,"  said  a  fourth  Ephor,  with  a  visible  shudder,  "  what 
Spartan  dare  counsel  sentence  of  death  to  the  descendant  of 
the  Gods  ? " 

"I  dare."  replied  Agesilaus,  "but  provided  only  that  the 
descendant  of  the  Gods  had  counselled  death  to  Greece.  And 
for  that  reason,  I  say  that  I  would  not,  without  evidence  the 
clearest,  even  harbor  the  thought  that  a  Heracleid  could  medi- 
tate treason  to  his  country." 

Periclides  felt  the  reproof  and  bit  his  lip. 

"  Besides,"  observed  Zeuxidamus,  "  fines  enrich   the  State." 

Periclides  nodded  approvingly. 

An  expression  of  lofty  contempt  paased  over  the  brow  and 
lip  of  Agesilaus.  But  with  national  self-command,  he  replied 
gravely,  and  with  equal  laconic  brevity  :  "  If  Pausanius  hath 
committed  a  trivial  error  that  a  fine  can  expiate,  so  be  it.  But 
talk  not  of  fines  till  ye  acquit  him  of  all  treasonable  connivance 
with  the  Mede." 

At  that  moment  an  officer  entered  on  the  conclave,  and 
approaching  the  presiding  Ephor,  whispered  in  his  ear. 

"  This  is  well,"  exclaimed  Periclides  aloud.     "A  messenger 


13*  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

from  Pausanias  himself.  Your  son  Lysander  has  just  arrived 
from  Byzantium." 

"  My  son  ! "  exclaimed  Agesilaus  eagerly,  and  then  checking 
himself,  added  calmly  :  "  That  is  a  sign  no  danger  to  Sparta 
threatened  Byzantium  when  he  left." 

"  Let  him  be  admitted,"  said  Periclides. 

Lysander  entered  ;  and  pausing  at  a  little  distance  from 
the  council  board,  inclined  his  head  submissively  to  the 
Ephors  ;  save  a  rapid  interchange  of  glances,  no  separate 
greeting  took  place  between  son  and  father. 

"  Thou  art  welcome,"  said  Periclides.  "  Thou  hast  done 
thy  duty  since  thou  hast  left  the  city.  Virgins  will  praise  thee 
as  the  brave  man  ;  age,  more  sober,  is  contented  to  say  thou 
hast  upheld  the  Spartan  name.  And  thy  father  without  shame 
may  take  thy  hand." 

A  warm  flush  spread  over  the  young  man's  face.  He 
stepped  forward  with  a  quick  step,  his  eyes  beaming  with  joy. 
Calm  and  stately,  his  father  rose,  clasped  the  extended  hand, 
then  releasing  his  own,  placed  it  in  an  instant  on  his  son's 
bended  head,  and  reseated  himself  in  silence. 

"  Thou  earnest  straight  from  Pausanias  !  "  said  Periclides. 

Lysander  drew  from  his  vest  the  despatch  entrusted  to  him, 
and  gave  it  to  the  presiding  Ephor.  Periclides  half  rose  as  if 
to  take  with  more  respect  what  had  come  from  the  hand  of  the 
son  of  Hercules. 

"  Withdraw,  Lysander,"  he  said,  "and  wait  without  while  we 
deliberate  on  the  contents  herein." 

Lysander  obeyed,  and  returned  to  the  outer  chamber. 

Here  he  was  instantly  surrounded  by  eager  though  not  noisy 
groups.  Some  in  that  chamber  were  waiting  on  business  con- 
nected with  the  civil  jurisdiction  of  the  Ephors.  Some  had 
gained  admittance  for  the  purpose  of  greeting  their  brave 
countryman,  and  hearing  news  of  the  distant  camp  from  one 
who  had  so  lately  quitted  the  great  Pausanias.  For  men  could 
talk  without  restraint  of  their  General,  though  it  was  but  with 
reserve  and  indirectly  that  they  slid  in  some  furtive  question 
as  to  the  health  and  safety  of  a  brother  or  a  son. 

"  My  heart  warms  to  be  amongst  ye  again,"  said  the  simple 
Spartan  youth.  "  As  I  came  thro'  the  defiles  from  the  sea- 
coast,  and  saw  on  the  height  the  gleam  from  the  old  Temple 
of  Pallas  Chalcioecus,  I  said  to  myself  :  '  Blessed  be  the  Gods 
that  ordained  me  to  live  with  Spartans  or  die  with  Sparta  ! ' ' 

"Thou  wilt  see  how  much  we  shall  make  of  thee,  Lysander," 
cried  a  Spartan  youth  a  little  younger  than  himselfs  one  of  the 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  133 

superior  tribe  of  the  Hylleans.  "  We  have  heard  of  thee  at 
Plataea.  It  is  said  that  had  Pausanias  not  been  there  thou 
wouldst  have  been  called  the  bravest  Greek  in  the  armament." 

"  Hush,"  said  Lysander,  "  thy  few  years  excuse  thee,  young 
friend.  Save  our  General,  we  were  all  equals  in  the  day  of 
battle." 

"  So  thinks  not  my  sister  Percalus,"  whispered  the  youth 
archly  ;  "scold  her  as  thou /lost  me,  if  thou  dare." 

Lysander  colored,  and  replied  in  a  voice  that  slightly  trem- 
bled :  "  I  cannot  hope  that  thy  sister  interests  herself  in  me. 
Nay,  when  I  left  Sparta,  I  thought — "  He  checked  himself. 

"Thought  what?" 

"  That  among  those  who  remained  behind,  Percalus  might 
find  her  betrothed  long  before  I  returned." 

u  Among  those  who  remained  behind!  Fercalus !  How 
meanly  thou  must  think  of  her." 

Before  Lysander  could  utter  the  eager  assurance  that  he  was 
very  far  from  thinking  meanly  of  Percalus,  the  other  bystanders, 
impatient  at  this  whispered  colloquy,  seized  his  attention  with 
a  volley  of  questions,  to  which  he  gave  but  curt  and  not  very 
relevant  answers,  so  much  had  the  lad's  few  sentences  dis- 
turbed the  calm  tenor  of  his  existing  self-possession.  Nor  did 
he  quite  regain  his  presence  of  mind  until  he  was  once  more 
snmmoned  into  the  presence  of  the  Ephors. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  communication  of  Pausanias  had  caused  an  animated 
discussion  in  the  Council,  and  led  to  a  strong  division  of  opinion. 
But  the  faces  of  the  Ephors,  rigid  and  composed,  revealed 
nothing  to  guide  the  sagacity  of  Lysander,  as  he  re-entered  the 
chamber.  He  himself,  by  a  strong  effort,  had  recovered  the 
disturbance  into  which  the  words  of  the  boy  had  thrown  his 
mind,  and  he  stood  before  the  Ephors  intent  upon  the  object 
of  defending  the  name  and  fulfilling  the  commands  of  his 
chief.  So  reverent  and  grateful  was  the  love  that  he  bore  to 
Pausanias,  that  he  scarcely  permitted  himself  even  to  blame  the 
deviations  from  Spartan  austerity  which  he  secretly  mourned 
in  his  mind  ;  and  as  to  the  grave  guilt  of  treason  to  the  Hel- 
lenic cause,  he  had  never  suffered  the  suspicion  of  it  to  rest 
upon  an  intellect  that  only  failed  to  be  penetrating  where  its 
sight  was  limited  by  discipline  and  affection.  He  felt  that 
Pausanias  had  entrusted  to  him  his  defence,  and  though  he 


134  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

would  fain,  in  his  secret  heart,  have  beheld  the  Regent  once 
more  in  Sparta,  yet  he  well  knew  that  it  was  the  duty  of  obedi- 
ence and  friendship  to  plead  against  the  sentence  of  recall 
which  was  so  dreaded  by  his  chief. 

With  all  his  thoughts  collected  towards  that  end,  he 
stood  before  the  Ephors,  modest  in  demeanor,  vigilant  in 
purpose. 

"  Lysander,"  said  Periclides,  after  a  short  pause,  "  we  know 
thy  affection  to  the  Regent,  thy  chosen  friend ;  but  we  know 
also  thy  affection  for  thy  native  Sparta  ;  where  the  two  may 
come  into  conflict,  it  is,  and  it  must  be,  thy  country  which  will 
claim  the  preference.  We  charge  thee,  by  virtue  of  our  high 
powers  and  authority,  to  speak  the  truth  on  the  questions  we 
shall  address  to  thee,  without  fear  or  favor." 

Lysander  bowed  his  head.  "I  am  in  presence  of  Sparta  my 
mother  and  Agesilaus  my  father.  They  know  that  I  was  not 
reared  to  lie  to  either/' 

"  Thou  say'st  well.  Now  answer.  Is  it  true  that  Pausanias 
wears  the  robes  of  the  Mede?" 

"  It  is  true." 

"And  has  he  stated  to  thee  his  reasons?" 

"Not  only  to  me  but  to  others." 

"  What  are  they  ? " 

"  That  in  the  mixed  and  half  Medized  population  of  Byzan- 
tium, splendor  of  attire  has  become  so  associated  with  the 
notion  of  sovereign  power,  that  the  Eastern  dress  and  attri- 
butes of  pomp  are  essential  to  authority ;  and  that  men  bow 
before  his  tiara  who  might  rebel  against  the  helm  and  the  horse- 
hair. Outward  signs  have  a  value,  O  Ephors,  according  to  the 
notions  men  are  brought  up  to  attach  to  them." 

"  Good,"  said  one  of  the  Ephors.  "  There  is  in  this  de- 
parture from  our  habits,  be  it  right  or  wrong,  no  sign  then  of 
connivance  with  the  Barbarian." 

"Connivance  is  a  thing  secret  and  concealed,  and  shuns  all 
outward  signs." 

"But,"  said  Periclides,  "what  say  the  other  Spartan  cap- 
tains to  this  vain  fashion,  which  savors  not  of  the  Laws  of 
^Egimius?" 

"  The  first  law  of  ^Egimius  commands  us  to  fight  and  to  die 
for  the  king  or  the  chief  who  has  kingly  sway.  The  Ephors 
may  blame,  but  the  soldier  must  not  question  ?" 

"  Thou  speakest  boldly  for  so  young  a  man,"  said  Periclides 
harshly. 

"  I  was  commanded  to  speak  the  truth." 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  135 

"  Has  Pausanias  entrusted  the  command  of  Byzantium  to 
Gongylus  the  Eretrian,  who  already  holds  four  provinces  under 
Xerxes  ?  " 

*'  He  has  done  so." 

"  Know  you  the  reason  for  that  selection  ?  " 

"  Pausanias  says  that  the  Eretrian  could  not  more  show  his 
faith  to  Hellas  than  by  resigning  Eastern  satrapies  so  vast." 

"  Has  he  resigned  them  ?  "• 

"  1  know  not ;  but  I  presume  that  when  the  Persian  King 
knows  that  the  Eretrian  is  leagued  against  him  with  the  other 
captains  of  Hellas,  he  will  assign  the  satrapies  to  another." 

"And  is  it  true  that  the  Persian  prisoners,  Ariamanes  and 
Datis,  have  escaped  from  the  custody  of  Gongylus?" 

"  It  is  true.  The  charge  against  Gongylus  for  that  error  was 
heard  in  a  council  of  Confederate  captains,  and  no  proof  against 
him  was  brought  forward.  Cimon  was  entrusted  with  the  pur- 
suit of  the  prisoners.  Pausanias  himself  sent  forth  fifty  scouts 
on  Thessalian  horses.  The  prisoners  were  not  discovered." 

"  Is  it  true,"  said  Zeuxidamus,  "  that  Pausanias  has  amassed 
much  plunder  at  Byzantium?" 

"  What  he  has  won  as  a  conqueror  was  assigned  to  him  by 
common  voice,  but  he  has  spent  largely  out  of  his  own  resour- 
ces in  securing  the  Greek  sway  at  Byzantium." 

There  was  a  silence.  None  liked  to  question  the  young  sol- 
dier farther  :  none  liked  to  put  the  direct  question,  whether  or 
not  the  Ionian  Ambassadors  could  have  cause  for  suspecting 
the  descendant  of  Hercules  of  harm  against  the  Greeks.  At 
length  Agesilaus  said  : 

"  I  demand  the  word,  and  I  claim  the  right  to  speak  plainly. 
My  son  is  young,  but  he  is  of  the  blood  of  Hyllus. 

"Son — Pausanias  is  dear  to  thee.  Man  soon  dies  :  man's 
name  lives  forever.  Dear  to  thee  if  Pausanias  is,  dearer  must 
be  his  name.  In  brief,  the  Ionian  Ambassadors  complain  of 
his  arrogance  towards  the  Confederates  ;  they  demand  his  re- 
call. Cimon  has  addressed  a  private  letter  to  the  Spartan  host, 
with  whom  he  lodged  here,  intimating  that  it  may  be  best  for 
the  honor  of  Pausanias,  and  for  our  weight  with  the  allies,  to 
hearken  to  the  Ionian  Embassy.  It  is  a  grave  question,  there- 
fore, whether  we  should  recall  the  Regent  or  refuse  to  hear 
these  charges.  Thou  art  fresh  from  Byzantium  :  thou  must 
know  more  of  this  matter  than  we.  Loose  thy  tongue  ;  put 
aside  equivocation.  Say  thy  mind  ;  it  is  for  us  to  decide  after- 
wards what  is  our  duty  to  the  State," 

"  I  thank  thee,  my  father,"  said  Lysander,  coloring  deeply  at 


136  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

a  compliment  paid  rarely  to  one  so  young,  "  and  thus  I  answer 
thee  : 

"  Pausanias,  in  seeking  to  enforce  discipline  and  preserve  the 
Spartan  supremacy,  was  at  first  somewhat  harsh  and  severe  to 
these  lonians,  who  had  indeed  but  lately  emancipated  them- 
selves from  the  Persian  yoke,  and  who  were  little  accustomed 
to  steady  rule.  But  of  late  he  has  been  affable  and  courteous, 
and  no  complaint  was  urged  against  him  for  austerity  at  the 
time  when  this  embassy  was  sent  to  you.  Wherefore  was  it 
then  sent !  Partly,  it  may  be,  from  motives  of  private  hate, 
not  public  zeal,  but  partly  because  the  Ionian  race  sees  with 
reluctance  and  jealousy  the  Hegemony  of, Sparta.  I  would 
speak  plainly.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  whether  ye  will  or  not 
that  Sparta  should  retain  the  maritime  supremacy  of  Hellas,  but 
if  ye  do  will  it,  ye  will  not  recall  Pausanias.  No  other  than 
the  Conqueror  of  Plataea  has  a  chance  of  maintaining  that 
authority.  Eager  would  the  lonians  be  upon  any  pretext,  false 
or  frivolous,  to  rid  themselves  of  Pausanias.  Artfully  willing 
would  be  the  Athenians  in  especial  that  ye  listened  to  such  pre- 
texts ;  for,  Pausanias  gone,  Athens  remains  and  rules.  On 
what  belongs  to  the  policy  of  the  State  it  becomes  not  me  to 
proffer  a  word,  O  Ephors.  In  what  I  have  said  I  speak  what 
the  whole  armament  thinks  and  murmurs.  But  this  I  may  say 
as  soldier  to  whom  the  honor  of  his  chief  is  dear.  The  recall 
of  Pausanias  may  or  may  not  be  wise  as  a  public  act,  but  it  will 
be  regarded  throughout  all  Hellas  as  a  personal  affront  to  your 
General ;  it  will  lower  the  royalty  of  Sparta  ;  it  will  be  an  insult 
to  the  blood  of  Hercules.  Forgive  me,  O  venerable  magis- 
trates. I  have  fought  by  the  side  of  Pausanias,  and  I  cannot 
dare  to  think  that  the  great  Conqueror  of  Plataea,  the  man  who 
saved  Hellas  from  the  Mede,  the  man  who  raised  Sparta  on 
that  day  to  a  renown  which  penetrated  the  farthest  corners  of 
the  East,  will  receive  from  you  other  return  than  fame  and 
glory.  And  fame  and  glory  will  surely  make  that  proud  spirit 
doubly  Spartan." 

Lysander  paused,  breathing  hard  and  coloring  deeply — 
annoyed  with  himself  for  a  speech  of  which  both  the  length 
and  the  audacity  were  much  more  Ionian  than  Sparian. 

The  Ephors  looked  at  each  other,  and  there  was  again  silence. 

"  Son  of  Agesilaus,"  said  Periclides,  "  thou  hast  proved  thy 
Lacedaemonian  virtues  too  well,  and  too  high  and  general  is  thy 
repute  amongst  our  army,  as  it  is  borne  to  our  ears,  for  us  to 
doubt  thy  purity  and  patriotism  ;  otherwise,  we  might  fear  that 
whilst  thou  speakest  in  some  contempt  of  Ionian  wolves,  thou 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  IJ7 

hadst  learned  the  arts  of  Ionian  Agoras.  But  enough  :  thou 
art  dismissed.  Go  to  thy  home  ;  glad  the  eyes  of  thy  mother  ; 
enjoy  the  honors  thou  wilt  find  awaiting  thee  amongst  thy 
coevals.  Thou  wilt  learn  later  whether  thou  return  to  Byzan- 
tium or  whether  a  better  field  for  thy  valor  may  not  be  found 
in  the  nearer  war  with  which  Arcadia  threatens  us." 

As  soon  as  Lysander  left  the  chamber,  Agesilaus  spoke  : 

"Ye  will  pardon  me,  Ephors,  if  I  bade  my  son  speak  thus 
boldly.  I  need  not  say  I  am  no  vain,  foolish  father,  desiring  to 
raise  the  youth  above  his  years.  But  making  allowance  for  his 
partiality  to  the  Regent,  ye  will  grant  that  he  is  a  fair  specimen 
of  our  young  soldiery.  Probably,  as  he  speaks,  so  will  our 
young  men  think.  To  recall  Pausanias  is  to  disgrace  our  Gen- 
eral. Ye  have  my  mind.  If  the  Regent  be  guilty  of  the  darker 
charges  insinuated — correspondence  with  the  Persian  against 
Greece — I  know  but  one  sentence  for  him — Death.  And  it  is 
because  I  would  have  ye  consider  well  how  dread  is  such  a 
charge,  and  how  awful  such  a  sentence,  that  I  entreat  ye  not 
lightly  to  entertain  the  one  unless  ye  are  prepared  to  meditate 
the  other.  As  for  the  maritime  supremacy  of  Sparta,  I  hold, 
as  I  have  held  before,  that  it  is  not  within  our  councils  to  strive 
for  it  ;  it  must  pass  from  us.  We  may  surrender  it  later  with 
dignity ;  if  we  recall  our  General  on  such  complaints,  we  lose 
it  with  humiliation." 

"  I  agree  too  with  Agesilaus,"  said  another,  "  Pausanias  is  an 
Heracleid  ;  my  vote  shall  not  insult  him." 

"  I  agree  too  with  Agesilaus,"  said  a  third  Ephor ;  "  not 
because  Pausanias  is  the  Heracleid,  but  because  he  is  the  vic- 
torious General  who  demands  gratitude  and  respect  from  every 
true  Spartan." 

"  Be  it  so,"  said  Periclides,  who,  seeing  himself  thus  outvoted 
in  the  council,  covered  his  disappointment  with  the  self-control 
habitual  to  his  race.  "  But  be  we  in  no  hurry  to  give  these 
Ionian  legates  their  answer  to-day.  We  must  deliberate  well 
how  to  send  such  a  reply  as  may  be  most  conciliating  and  pru- 
dent. And  for  the  next  few  days  we  have  an  excuse  for  delay 
in  the  religious  ceremonials  due  to  the  venerable  Divinity  of 
Fear,  which  commence  to-morrow.  Pass  we  to  the  other  busi- 
ness before  us  ;  there  are  many  whom  we  have  kept  waiting. 
Agesilaus,  thou  art  excused  from  the  public  table  to-day  if  thou 
wouldst  sup  with  thy  brave  son  at  home." 

"  Nay,"  said  Agesilaus,  "  my  son  will  go  to  his  pheidition 
p^d  I  to  mine — as  I  did  on  the  day  when  I  lost  my  first-born," 


138  PAUSAN1AS,    THE   SPARTAN. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ON  quitting  the  Hall  of  the  Ephors,  Lysander  found  him- 
self  at  once  on  the  Spartan  Agora,  wherein  that  Hall  was 
placed.  This  was  situated  on  the  highest  of  the  five  hills  over 
which  the  unwalled  city  spread  its  scattered  population,  and 
was  popularly  called  the  Tower.  Before  the  eyes  of  the  young 
Spartan  rose  the  statues,  rude  and  antique,  of  Latona,  the  Py- 
thian Apollo,  and  his  sister  Artemis — venerable  images  to  Lysan- 
der's  early  associations.  The  place  which  they  consecrated 
was  called  Chorus ;  for  there,  in  honor  of  Apollo,  and  in  the 
most  pompous  of  all  the  Spartan  festivals,  the  young  men  were 
accustomed  to  lead  the  sacred  dance.  The  Temple  of  Apollo 
himself  stood  a  little  in  the  background,  and  near  to  it  that  of 
Hera.  But  more  vast  than  any  image  of  a  god  was  a  colossal 
statue  which  represented  the  Spartan  people  ;  while  on  a  still 
loftier  pinnacle  of  the  hill  than  that  table-land  which  enclosed 
the  Agora — dominating,  as  it  were,  the  whole  city — soared  into 
the  bright  blue  sky  the  sacred  Chalcicecus,  or  Temple  of  the 
Brazen  Pallas,  darkening  with  its  shadow  another  fane  towards 
the  left  dedicated  to  the  Lacedaemonian  Muses,  and  receiving 
a  gleam  on  the  right  from  the  brazen  statue  of  Zeus,  which  was 
said  by  tradition  to  have  been  made  by  a  disciple  of  Daedalus 
himself. 

But  short  time  had  Lysander  to  note  undisturbed  the  old 
familiar  scenes.  A  crowd  of  his  early  friends  had  already  col- 
lected round  the  doors  of  the  Archeion,  and  rushed  forward  to 
greet  and  welcome  him.  The  Spartan  coldness  and  austerity  of 
.social  intercourse  vanished  always  before  the  enthusiasm  created 
by  the  return  to  his  native  city  of  a  man  renowned  for  valor  ; 
and  Lysander's  fame  had  come  back  to  Sparta  before  himself. 
Joyously,  and  in  triumph,  the  young  men  bore  away  their  com- 
rade. As  they  passed  through  the  centre  of  the  Agora,  where 
assembled  the  various  merchants  and  farmers,  who,  under  the 
name  of  Perioeci,  carried  on  the  main  business  of  the  Laconian 
mart,  and  were  often  much  wealthier  than  the  Spartan  citizens, 
trade  ceased  its  hubbub  ;  all  drew  near  to  gaze  on  the  young 
warrior ;  and.  now,  as  they  turned  from  the  Agora,  a  group  of 
eager  women  met  them  on  the  road,  and  shrill  voices  exclaimed: 
"  Go,  Lysander,  thou  hast  fought  well — go  and  choose  for  thy- 
self the  maiden  that  seems  to  thee  the  fairest.  Go,  marry  and 
get  sons  for  Sparta." 

Lysander's  step  seemed  to  tread  on  air,  and  tears  of  rapture 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  139 

stood  in  his  downcast  eyes.  But  suddenly  all  the  voices  hushed; 
the  crowds  drew  back  ;  his  friends  halted.  Close  by  the  great 
Temple  of  Fear,  and  coming  from  some  place  within  its  sanc- 
tuary, there  approached  towards  the  Spartan  and  his  comrades 
a  majestic  woman — a  woman  of  so  grand  a  step  and  port  that, 
though  her  veil  as  yet  hid  her  face,  her  form  alone  sufficed  to 
inspire  awe.  All  knew  her  by  her  gait:  all  made  way  for  Ali- 
thea,  the  widow  of  a  king,  the  mother  of  Pausanias  the  Regent. 
Lysander,  lifting  his  eyes  from  the  ground,  impressed  by  the 
hush  around  him,  recognized  the  form  as  it  advanced  slowly 
towards  him,  and,  leaving  his  comrades  behind,  stepped  for- 
ward to  salute  the  mother  of  his  chief.  She,  thus  seeing  him, 
turned  slightly  aside,  and  paused  by  a  rude  building  of  imme- 
morial antiquity  which  stood  near  the  temple.  That  building 
was  the  tomb  of  the  mythical  Orestes,  whose  bones  were  said  to 
have  been  interred  there  by  the  command  of  the  Delphian 
Oracle.  On  a  stone  at  the  foot  of  the  tomb  sate  calmly  down 
the  veiled  woman,  and  waited  the  approach  of  Lysander.  When 
he  came  near,  and  alone — all  the  rest  remaining  aloof  and  silent 
— Alithea  removed  her  veil,  and  a  countenance  grand  and  ter- 
rible as  that  of  a  Fate  lifted  its  rigid  looks  to  the  young  Spartan's 
eyes.  Despite  her  age — for  she  had  passed  into  middle  life  be- 
fore she  had  borne  Pausanias — Alithea  retained  all  the  traces 
of  a  marvellous  and  almost  preterhuman  beauty.  But  it  was 
not  the  beauty  of  woman.  No  softness  sate  on  those  lips  ;  no 
love  beamed  from  those  eyes.  Stern,  inexorable — not  a  fault 
in  her  grand  proportions — the  stoutest  heart  might  have  felt  a 
throb  of  terror  as  the  eye  rested  upon  that  pitiless  and  impos- 
ing front.  And  the  deep  voice  of  the  Spartan  warrior  had  a 
slight  tremor  in  its  tone  as  it  uttered  its  respectful  salutation. 

"  Draw  near,  Lysander.     What  sayest  thou  of  my  son  ? " 

"  I  left  him  well,  and-1—" 

"  Does  a  Spartan  mother  first  ask  of  the  bodily  health  of  an 
absent  man-child  ?  By  the  tomb  of  Orestes  and  near  the  Tem- 
ple of  Fear,  a  king's  widow  asks  a  Spartan  soldier  what  he  says 
of  a  Spartan  chief." 

"All  Hellas,"  replied  Lysander,  recovering  his  spirit,  "might 
answer  thee  best,  Alithea.  For  all  Hellas  proclaimed  that  the 
bravest  man  at  Plataea  was  thy  son,  my  chief." 

"  And  where  did  my  son,  thy  chief,  learn  to  boast  of  bravery  ? 
They  tell  me  he  inscribed  the  offerings  to  the  Gods  with  his 
name  as  the  victor  of  Platasa — the  battle  won  not  by  one  man 
but  assembled  Greece.  The  inscription  that  dishonors  him  by 
its  vainglory  will  be  erased.  To  be  brave  is  nought.  Barba- 


140  I'USANMAS,    THE    Sl'ARTAN. 

nans  may  be  brave.  But  to  dedicate  bravery  to  his  native  land 
becomes  a  Spartan.  He  who  is  everything  against  a  foe  should 
count  himself  as  nothing  in  the  service  of  his  country." 

Lysander  remained  silent  under  the  gaze  of  those  fixed  and 
imperious  eyes. 

"  Youth,"  said  Alithea,  after  a  short  pause,  "  if  thou  return- 
est  to  Byzantium,  say  this  from  Alithea  to  thy  chief  :  "  From 
thy  childhood,  Pausanias,  has  thy  mother  feared  for  thee  ;  and 
at  the  Temple  of  Fear  did  she  sacrifice  when  she  heard  that 
thou  wert  victorious  at  Plataea ;  for  in  thy  heart  are  the  seeds 
of  arrogance  and  pride  ;  and  victory  to  thine  arms  may  end  in 
ruin  to  thy  name.  And  ever  since  that  day  does  Alithea  haunt 
the  precincts  of  that  temple.  Come  back  and  be  Spartan,  as 
thine  ancestors  were  before  thee,  and  Alithea  will  rejoice  and 
think  the  Gods  have  heard  her.  But  if  thou  seest  within  thy- 
self one  cause  why  thy  mother  should  sacrifice  to  Fear,  lest  her 
son  should  break  the  laws  of  Sparta  or  sully  his  Spartan  namCj 
humble  thyself,  and  mourn  that  thou  didst  not  perish  at  Plataea. 
By  a  temple  and  from  a  tomb  I  send  thee  warning.'  Say  this. 
I  have  done  ;  join  thy  friends." 

Again  the  veil  fell  over  the  face,  and  the  figure  of  the  woman 
remained  seated  at  the  tomb  long  after  the  procession  had 
passed  on,  and  the  mirth  of  young  voices  was  again  released. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  group  that  attended  Lysander  continued  to  swell  as  he 
mounted  the  acclivity  on  which  his  parental  home  was  placed. 
The  houses  of  the  Spartan  proprietors  were  at  that  day  not 
closely  packed  together  as  in  the  dense  population  of  commer- 
cial towns.  More  like  the  villas  of  a  suburb,  they  lay  a  little 
apart,  on  the  unequal  surface  of  the  rugged  ground,  perfectly 
plain  and  unadorned,  covering  a  large  space  with  ample  court- 
yards, closed  in,  in  front  of  the  narrow  streets.  And  still  was 
in  force  the  primitive  law  which  ordained  that  doorways  should 
be  shaped  only  by  the  saw,  and  the  ceilings  by  the  axe  ;  but  in 
contrast  to  the  rudeness  of  the  private  houses,  at  every  open- 
ing in  the  street  were  seen  the  Doric  pillars  of  graceful  stairs 
of  a  temple  ;  and  high  over  all  dominated  the  Tower  hill,  or 
Acropolis,  with  the  antique  fane  of  Pallas  Chalcicecus. 

And  so,  loud  and  joyous,  the  procession  bore  the  young  war- 
rior to  the  threshold  of  his  home.  It  was  an  act  of  public 
honor  to  his  fair  repute  and  his  proven  valor.  And  the  Spar- 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  14! 

tan  felt  as  proud  of  that  unceremonious  attendance  as  ever 
did  Roman  chief  sweeping  under  arches  of  triumph  in  the 
curule  car. 

At  the  threshold  of  the  door  stood  his  mother — for  the  tid- 
ings of  his  coming  had  preceded  him — and  his  little  brothers 
and  sisters.  His  step  quickened  at  the  sight  of  these  beloved 
faces. 

"  Bound  forward,  Lysander,"  said  one  of  the  train  ;  "  thou 
hast  won  the  right  to  thy  mother's  kiss." 

"But  fail  us  not  at  the  pheidition  before  sunset,"  cried 
another.  "  Every  one  of  the  obe  will  send  his  best  contribu- 
tion to  the  feast  to  welcome  thee  back.  We  shall  have  a  rare 
banquet  of  it." 

And  so,  as  his  mother  drew  him  within  the  doors,  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  and  the  children  clung  to  his  cloak,  to  his 
knees,  or  sprung  up  to  claim  his  kisses,  the  procession  set  up  a 
kind  of  chaunted  shout,  and  left  the  warrior  in  his  home. 

"  Oh,  this  is  joy,  joy  !  "  said  Lysander,  with  sweet  tears  in 
his  eyes,  as  he  sat  in  the  women's  apartment,  his  mother  by  his 
side,  and  the  little  ones  round  him.  "  Where,  save  in  Sparta, 
does  a  man  love  a  home  ?  " 

And  this  exclamation,  which  might  have  astonished  an 
Ionian — seeing  how  much  the  Spartan  civilians  merged  the 
individual  in  the  state — was  yet  true,  where  the  Spartan  was 
wholly  Spartan  ;  where,  by  habit  and  association,  he  had  learned 
to  love  the  severities  of  the  existence  that  surrounded  him, 
and  where  the  routine  of  duties  which  took  him  from  his  home, 
whether  for  exercises  or  the  public  tables,  made  yet  more  pre- 
cious the  hours  of  rest  and  intimate  intercourse  with  his  family. 
For  the  gay  pleasures  and  lewd  resorts  of  other  Greek  cities 
were  not  known  to  the  Spartan.  Not  for  him  were  the  cook- 
shops  and  baths  and  revels  of  Ionian  idlers.  When  the  State 
ceased  to  claim  him,  he  had  nothing  but  his  Home. 

As  Lysander  thus  exclaimed,  the  door  of  the  room  had  opened 
noiselessly,  and  Agesilaus  stood  unperceived  at  the  entrance, 
and  overheard  his  son.  His  face  brightened  singularly  at  Ly- 
sander's  words.  He  came  forward  and  opened  his  arms. 

"  Embrace  me  now,  my  boy  !  my  brave  boy  !  embrace  me 
now  !  The  Ephors  are  not  here." 

Lysander  turned,  sprang  up,  and  was  in  his  father's  arms. 

"  So  thou  art  not  changed.  Byzantium  has  not  spoiled  thee. 
Thy  name  is  uttered  with  praise  unmixed  with  fear.  All  Persia's 
gold,  all  the  great  King's  satrapies  could  not  Medize  my  Ly- 
sander. Ah,"  continued  the  father,  turning  to  his  wife,  "  who 


14-  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

could  have  predicted  the  happiness  of  this  hour  ?  Poor  child  ! 
he  was  born  sickly.  Hera  had  already  given  us  more  sons 
than  we  could  provide  for,  ere  our  lands  were  increased  by  the 
death  of  thy  childless  relatives.  Wife,,  wife  !  when  the  family 
council  ordained  him  to  be  exposed  on  Taygetus,  when  thou 
didst  hide  thyself  lest  thy  tears  should  be  seen,  and  my  voice 
trembled  as  I  said,  'Be  the  laws  obeyed,'  who  could  have 
guessed  that  the  gods  would  yet  preserve  him  to  be  the  pride 
of  our  house  ?  Blessed  be  Zeus  the  saviour  and  Hercules  the 
warrior  !  " 

"And, "said  the  mother,  "blessed  bePausanias,  the  descend- 
ant of  Hercules,  who  took  the  forlorn  infant  to  his  father's 
home,  and  who  has  reared  him  now  to  be  the  example  of  Spar- 
tan youths." 

"  Ah,"  said  Lysander,  looking  up  into  his  father's  eyes,  "  if  I 
can  ever  be  worthy  of  your  love,  oh,  my  father,  forget  not,  I 
pray  thee,  that  it  is  to  Pausanias  I  owe  life,  home,  and  a  Spar- 
tan's glorious  destiny." 

"  I  forget  it  not,"  answered  Agesilaus,  with  a  mournful  and 
serious  expression  of  countenance.  "And  on  this  I  would 
speak  to  thee.  Thy  mother  must  spare  thee  awhile  to  me. 
Come.  I  lean  on  thy  shoulder  instead  of  my  staff." 

Agesilaus  led  his  son  into  the  large  hall,  which  was  the  main 
chamber  of  the  house  ;  and  pacing  up  and  down  the  wide  and 
solitary  floor,  questioned  him  closely  as  to  the  truth  of  the 
stories  respecting  the  Regent  which  had  reached  the  Ephors. 

"  Thou  must  speak  with  naked  heart  to  me,"  said  Agesilaus  ; 
"for  I  tell  thee  that,  if  I  am  Spartan,  I  am  also  man  and  father; 
and  I  would  serve  him  who  saved  thy  life  and  taught  thee 
how  to  fight  for  thy  country,  in  every  way  that  may  be  lawful 
to  a  Spartan  and  a  Greek." 

Thus  addressed  and  convinced  of  his  father's  sincerity,  Ly- 
sander replied  with  ingenuous  and  brief  simplicity.  He  granted 
that  Pausanias  had  exposed  himself  with  a  haughty  impru- 
dence, which  it  was  difficult  to  account  for,  to  the  charges 
of  the  lonians.  "  But,"  he  added,  with  that  shrewd  observa- 
tion which  his  affection  for  Pausanias  rather  than  his  experi- 
ence of  human  nature  had  taught  him — "  But  we  must  remem- 
ber that  in  Pausanias  we  are  dealing  with  no  ordinary  man. 
If  he  has  faults  of  judgment,  which  a  Spartan  rarely  commits, 
he  has,  O  my  father,  a  force  of  intellect  and  passion  which  a 
Spartan  as  rarely  knows.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  truth?  Our 
State  is  too  small  for  him.  But  would  it  not  have  been  too 
small  for  Hercules  ?  Would  the  laws  of  ^gimius  have  per- 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  143 

mitted  Hercules  to  perform  his  labors  and  achieve  his  con- 
quests ?  This  vast  and  fiery  nature  suddenly  released  from  the 
cramps  of  our  customs,  which  Pausanias  never  in  his  youth 
regarded  save  as  galling,  expands  itself,  as  an  eagle  long  caged 
would  outspread  its  wings." 

"  I  comprehend,"  said  Agesilaus  thoughtfully,  and  somewhat 
sadly.  "  There  have  been  moments  in  my  own  life  when  I 
regarded  Sparta  as  a  prison.  In  my  early  manhood  I  was  sent 
on  a  mission  to  Corinth.  Its  pleasures,  its  wild  tumult  of  gay 
license,  dazzled  and  inebriated  me.  I  said,  '  This  it  is  to  live.' 
I  came  back  to  Sparta  sullen  and  discontented.  But  then, 
happily,  I  saw  thy  mother  at  the  festival  of  Diana — we  loved 
each  other,  we  married — and  when  I  was  permitted  to  take  her 
to  my  home,  I  became  sobered  and  was  a  Spartan  again.  I 
comprehend.  Poor  Pausanias  !  But  luxury  and  pleasure, 
though  they  charm  awhile,  do  not  fill  up  the  whole  of  a  soul 
like  that  of  our  Heracleid.  From  these  he  may  recover  ;  but 
Ambition — that  is  the  true  liver  of  Tantalus,  and  grows  larger 
under  the  beak  that  feeds  on  it.  What  is  his  ambition,  if 
Sparta  be  too  small  for  him  ?" 

"I  think  his  ambition  would  be  to  make  Sparta  as  big  as 
himself." 

Agesilaus  stroked  his  chin  musingly. 

"And  how?" 

"  I  cannot  tell,  I  can  only  guess.  But  the  Persian  war,  if  I 
may  judge  by  what  I  hear  and  see,  cannot  roll  away  and  leave 
the  boundaries  of  each  Greek  State  the  same.  Two  States 
now  stand  forth  prominent,  Athens  and  Sparta.  Themistocles 
and  Cimon  aim  at  making  Athens  fhe  head  of  Hellas.  Perhaps 
Pausanias  aims  to  effect  for  Sparta  what  they  would  effect  for 
Athens." 

"And  what  thinkest  thou  of  such  a  scheme?" 

"  Ask  me  not.  I  am  too  young,  too  inexperienced,  and  per- 
haps too  Spartan  to  answer  rightly." 

"  Too  Spartan,  because  thou  art  too  covetous  of  power  for 
Sparta." 

"  Too  Spartan,  because  I  may  be  too  anxious  to  keep  Sparta 
what  she  is." 

Agesilaus  smiled.  "  We  are  of  the  same  mind,  my  son. 
Think  not  that  the  rocky  defiles  which  enclose  us  shut  out 
from  our  minds  all  the  ideas  that  new  circumstance  strikes 
from  Time.  I  have  meditated  on  what  thou  sayest  Pausanias 
may  scheme.  It  is  true  that  the  invasion  of  the  Mede  must 
tend  to  raise  UD  one  State  in  Greece  to  which  the  others  will 


144  PAUSAN1AS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

look  for  a  head.  I  have  asked  myself,  can  Sparta  be  that 
State  ?  And  my  reason  tells  me,  No.  Sparta  is  lost  if  she 
attempt  it.  She  may  become  something  else,  but  she  cannot 
be  Sparta.  Such  a  State  must  become  maritime,  and  depend 
on  fleets.  Our  inland  situation  forbids  this.  True  we  have 
ports  in  which  the  Periceci  flourish  ;  but  did  we  use  them  for  a 
permanent  policy  the  Periceci  must  become  our  masters.  These 
five  villages  would  be  abandoned  for  a  mart  on  the  seashore. 
This  mother  of  men  would  be  no  more.  A  State  that  so 
aspires  must  have  ample  wealth  at  its  command.  We  have 
none.  We  might  raise  tribute  from  other  Greek  cities,  but  for 
that  purpose  we  must  have  fleets  again,  to  overawe  and  com- 
pel, for  no  tribute  will  be  long  voluntary.  A  state  that  would 
be  the  active  governor  of  Hellas  must  have  lives  to  spare  in 
abundance.  We  have  none,  unless  we  always  do  hereafter  as 
we  did  at  Platsea,  raise  an  army  of  Helots — seven  Helots  to  one 
Spartan.  How  long,  if  we  did  so,  would  the  Helots  obey  us, 
and  meanwhile  how  would  our  lands  be  cultivated?  A  State 
that  would  be  the  centre  of  Greece,  must  cultivate  all  that  can 
charm  and  allure  strangers.  We  banish  strangers,  and  what 
charms  and  allures  them  would  womanize  us.  More  than  all, 
a  State  that  would  obtain  the  sympathies  of  the  turbulent 
Hellenic  populations  must  have  the  most  popular  institutions. 
It  must  be  governed  by  a  Demus.  We  are  an  Oligarchic  Aris- 
tocracy— a  disciplined  camp  of  warriors,  not  a  licentious 
Agora.  Therefore,  Sparta  cannot  assume  the  head  of  a  Greek 
Confederacy  except  in  the  rare  seasons  of  actual  war  ;  and  the 
attempt  to  make  her  the  head  of  such  a  confederacy  would 
cause  changes  so  repugnant  to  our  manners  and  habits,  that  it 
would  be  fraught  with  destruction  to  him  who  made  the 
attempt,  or  to  us  if  he  succeeded.  Wherefore,  to  sum  up,  the 
ambition  of  Pausanias  is  in  this  impracticable,  and  must  be 
opposed." 

"  And  Athens,"  cried  Lysander,  with  a  slight  pang  of  natural 
and  national  jealousy,  "  Athens  then  must  wrest  from  Pausanias 
the  hegemony  he  now  holds  for  Sparta,  and  Athens  must  be 
what  the  Athenian  ambition  covets." 

"We  cannot  help  it — she  must ;  but  can  it  last? — Impossible. 
And  woe  to  her  if  she  ever  comes  in  contact  with  the  bronze  of 
Laconian  shields.  But  in  the  mean  while  what  is  to  be  done 
with  this  great  and  awful  Heracleid  ?  They  accuse  him  of 
Medizing,  of  secret  conspiracy  with  Persia  itself.  Can  that  be 
possible  ?  " 

"If  so,  it  is  but  to  use  Persia  on  behalf  of  Sparta.     If  he 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  145 

would  subdue  Greece,  it  is  not  for  the  King,  it  is  for  the  race 
of  Hercules." 

"  Ay,  ay,  ay,"  cried  Agesilaus,  shading  his  face  with  his 
hand.  "  All  becomes  clear  to  me  now.  Listen.  Did  I  openly 
defend  Pausanias  before  the  Ephors,  I  should  injure  his  cause. 
But  when  they  talk  of  his  betraying  Hellas  and  Sparta,  I  place 
before  them  nakedly  and  broadly  their  duty  if  that  charge  be 
true.  For  if  true,  O  my  son,  Pausanias  must  die  as  criminals 
die." 

"  Die — criminal — an  Heracleid — king's  blood — the  victor  of 
Plataea — my  friend  Pausanias  !  " 

"  Rather  he  than  Sparta.     What  sayest  thou  ?  " 

"  Neither,  neither,"  exclaimed  Lysander,  wringing  his 
hands — "impossible  both." 

"  Impossible  both,  be  it  so.  I  place  before  the  Ephors  the 
terrors  of  accrediting  that  charge,  in  order  that  they  may 
repudiate  it.  For  the  lesser  ones  it  matters  not ;  he  is  in  no 
danger  there,  save  that  of  fine.  And  his  gold,"  added  Agesi- 
laus with  a  curved  lip  of  disdain,  "  will  both  condemn  and 
save  him.  For  the  rest  I  would  spare  him  the  dishonor  of 
being  publicly  recalled,  and  to  say  truth,  I  would  save  Sparta 
the  peril  she  might  incur  from  his  wrath,  if  she  inflicted  on 
him  that  slight.  But  mark  me,  he  himself  must  resign  his 
command,  voluntarily,  and  return  to  Sparta.  Better  so  for  him 
and  his  pride,  for  he  cannot  keep  the  hegemony  against  the 
will  of  the  lonians,  whose  fleet  is  so  much  larger  than  ours, 
and  it  is  to  his  gain  if  his  successor  lose  it,  not  he.  But  better, 
not  only  for  his  pride,  but  for  his  glory  and  his  name,  that  he 
should  come  from  these  scenes  of  fierce  temptation,  and,  since 
birth  made  him  a  Spartan,  learn  here  again  to  conform  to  what 
he  cannot  change.  I  have  spoken  thus  plainly  to  thee.  Use 
the  words  I  have  uttered  as  thou  best  may,  after  thy  return  to 
Pausanias,  which  I  will  strive  to  make  speedy.  But  while  we 
talk  there  goes  on  danger — danger  still  of  his  abrupt  recall — 
for  there  are  those  who  will  seize  every  excuse  for  it.  Enough 
of  these  grave  matters  :  the  sun  is  sinking  towards  the  west,  and 
thy  companions  await  thee  at  thy  feast ;  mine  will  be  eager  to 
greet  me  on  thy  return,  and  thy  little  brothers,  who  go  with 
me  to  my  pheidition,  will  hear  thee  so  praised  that  they  will 
long  for  the  crypteia — long  to  be  men,  and  find  some  future 
Platsea  for  themselves.  May  the  gods  forbid  it !  War  is  a 
terrible  unsettler.  Time  saps  States  as  a  tide  the  cliff.  War 
is  an  inundation,  and  when  it  ebbs,  a  landmark  has  vanished," 


146  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 


CHAPTER  V. 

NOTHING  so  largely  contributed  to  the  peculiar  character  of 
Spartan  society  as  the  uniform  custom  of  taking  the  principal 
meal  at  a  public  table.  It  conduced  to  four  objects  :  the  pre- 
cise status  of  aristocracy,  since  each  table  was  formed  according 
to  title  and  rank  ;  equality  among  aristocrats,  since  each  at 
the  same  table  was  held  the  equals  of  the  other  military  union, 
for  as  they  feasted  so  they  fought,  being  formed  into  divisions 
in  the  field  according  as  they  messed  together  at  home  ;  and 
lastly,  that  sort  of  fellowship  in  public  opinion  which  intimate 
association  amongst  those  of  the  same  rank  and  habit  naturally 
occasions.  These  tables  in  Sparta  were  supplied  by  private 
contributions  ;  each  head  of  a  family  was  obliged  to  send  a 
certain  portion  at  his  own  cost,  and  according  to  the  number 
of  his  children.  If  his  fortune  did  not  allow  him  to  do  this, 
he  was  excluded  from  the  public  tables.  Hence  a  certain  for- 
tune was  indispensable  to  the  pure  Spartan,  and  this  was  one 
reason  why  it  was  permitted  to  expose  infants,  if  the  family 
threatened  to  be  too  large  for  the  father's  means.  The  general 
arrangements  were  divided  into  syssitia,  according,  perhaps,  to 
the  number  of  families,  and  correspondent  to  the  divisions  or 
obes  acknowledged  by  the  State.  But  these  larger  sections 
were  again  subdivided  into  companies  or  clubs  of  fifteen, 
vacancies  being  filled  up  by  ballot  ;  but  one  vote  could  ex- 
clude. And  since,  as  we  have  said,  the  companies  were 
marshalled  in  the  field  according  to  their  association  at  the 
table,  it  is  clear  that  fathers  of  grave  years  and  of  high  station 
(station  in  Sparta  increased  with  years)  could  not  have  belonged 
to  the  same  table  as  the  young  men,  their  sons.  Their  boys 
under  a  certain  age  they  took  to  their  own  pheiditia,  where 
the  children  sat  upon  a  lower  bench,  and  partook  of  the  simplest 
dishes  of  the  fare. 

Though  the  cheer  at  these  public  tables  was  habitually  plain, 
yet  upon  occasion  it  was  enriched  by  presents  to  the  after- 
course,  of  games  and  fruit. 

Lysander  was  received  by  his  old  comrades  with  that  cor- 
dility  in  which  was  mingled  for  the  first  time  a  certain  manly 
respect,  due  to  feats  in  battle,  and  so  flattering  to  the  young. 

The  prayer  to  the  Gods,  correspondent  to  the  modern  grace, 
and  the  pious  libations  being  concluded,  the  attendant  Helots 
served  the  black  broth,  and  the  party  fell  to,  with  the  appetite 
produced  by  hardy  exercise  and  mountain  air. 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  147 

"  What  do  the  allies  say  to  the  black  broth  ?"  asked  a  young 
Spartan. 

"  They  do  not  comprehend  its  merits,"  answered  Lysander. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

EVERYTHING  in  the  familiar  life  to  which  he  had  returned 
delighted  the  young  Lysander.  But  for  anxious  thoughts  about 
Pausanias,  he  would  have  been  supremely  blest.  To  him  the 
various  scenes  of  his  early  years  brought  no  associations  of  the 
restraint  and  harshness  which  revolted  the  more  luxurious 
nature  and  the  fiercer  genius  of  Pausanias.  The  plunge  into 
Jhe  frigid  waters  of  Eurotas — the  sole  bath  permitted  to  the 
Spartans*  at  a  time  when  the  rest  of  Greece  had  already  carried 
the  art  of  bathing  into  voluptuous  refinement — the  sight  of  the 
vehement  contests  of  the  boys,  drawn  up  as  in  battle,  at  the 
game  of  football,  or  in  detached  engagements,  sparing  each 
other  so  little,  that  the  popular  belief  out  of  Sparta  was  that 
they  were  permitted  to  tear  out  each  other's  eyes,f  but  subjecting 
strength  to  every  skilful  art  that  gymnastics  could  teach — the 
mimic  war  on  the  island,  near  the  antique  trees  of  the  Plane 
Garden,  waged  with  weapons  of  wood  and  blunted  iron,  and 
the  march  regulated  to  the  music  of  flutes  and  lyres — nay, 
even  the  sight  of  the  stern  altar,  at  which  boys  had  learned  to 
bear  the  anguish  of  stripes  without  a  murmur — all  produced  in 
this  primitive  and  intensely  national  intelligence  an  increased 
admiration  for  the  ancestral  laws,  which,  carrying  patience, 
fortitude,  address  and  strength  to  the  utmost  perfection,  had 
formed  a  handful  of  men  into  the  calm  lords  of  a  fierce  popu- 
lation, and  placed  the  fenceless  villages  of  Sparta  beyond  a  fear 
of  the  external  assaults  and  the  civil  revolutions  which  per- 
petually stormed  the  citadels  and  agitated  the  market-places  of 
Hellenic  cities.  His  was  not  the  mind  to  perceive,  that  much 
was  relinquished  for  the  sake  of  that  which  was  gained,  or  to 
comprehend  that  there  was  more  which  consecrates  humanity 
in  one  stormy  day  at  Athens,  than  in  a  serene  century  of  iron 
Lacedsemon.  But  there  is  ever  beauty  of  soul  where  there  is 
enthusiastic  love  of  country  ;  and  the  young  Spartan  was  wise 
in  his  own  Dorian  way. 

*  Except  occasionally  the  dry  sudorific  bath,  all  warm  bathing  was  strictly  forbidden  as 
enervating; 

t  An  evident  exaggeration.  The  Spartans  had  too  great  a  regard  for  the  physical  gifts 
as  essential  to  warlike  uses,  to  permit  cruelties  that  would  have  blinded  their  young  warriors. 
And  they  even  forbade  the  practice  of  the  pancratium  as  ferocious  and  needlessly  danger- 
ous to  life. 


148  PAUSAN1AS,    THE    Sl'AUTAN. 

The  religious  festival  which  had  provided  the  Ephors  with 
an  excuse  for  delaying  their  answer  to  the  Ionian  envoys  occu- 
pied the  city.  The  youths  and  the  maidens  met  in  the  sacred 
«horus  ;  and  Lyander,  standing  by  amidst  the  gazers,  suddenly 
elt  his  heart  beat.  A  boy  pulled  him  by  the  skirt  of  his 
nantle. 

"  Lysander,  has  thou  yet  scolded  Percalus  ?  "  said  the  boy's 
roice,  archly. 

"  My  young  friend."  answered  Lysander,  coloring  high, 
*  Percalus  hath  vouchsafed  me  as  yet  no  occasion  ;  and,  indeed, 
the  alone,  of  all  the  friends  whom  I  left  behind,  does  not  seem 
to  recognize  me." 

His  eyes  as  he  spoke,  rested  with  a  mute  reproach  in  their 
gaze  on  the  form  of  a  virgin,  who  had  just  paused  in  the  choral 
dance,  and  whose  looks  were  bent  obdurately  on  the  ground. 
Her  luxuriant  hair  was  drawn  upward  from  cheek  and  brow, 
braided  into  a  knot  at  the  crown  of  the  head,  in  the  fashion  so 
trying  to  those  who  have  neither  bloom  nor  beauty,  so  exqui- 
sitely becoming  to  those  who  have  both  ;  and  the  maiden,  even 
amid  Spartan  girls,  was  pre-eminently  lovely.  It  is  true  that 
the  sun  had  somewhat  embrowned  the  smooth  cheek  ;  but  the 
stately  throat  and  the  rounded  arms  were  admirably  fair — not, 
indeed,  with  the  pale  and  dead  whiteness  which  the  Ionian 
woman  sought  to  obtain  by  art,  but  with  the  delicate  rose-hue 
of  Hebe's  youth.  Her  garment  of  snow-white  wool,  fastened 
over  both  shoulders  with  large  golden  clasps,  was  without 
sleeves,  fitted  not  too  tightly  to  the  harmonious  form,  and  leaving 
more  than  the  ankle  free  to  the  easy  glide  of  the  dance.  Taller 
than  Hellenic  women  usually  were,  but  about  the  average 
height  of  her  Spartan  companions,  her  shape  was  that  which 
the  sculptors  give  to  Artemis.  Light  and  feminine  and  virgin- 
like,  but  with  all  the  rich  vitality  of  a  divine  youth,  with  a  force 
not  indeed  of  a  man,  but  such  as  art  would  give  to  the  goddess 
whose  step  bounds  over  the  mountain  top,  and  whose  arm  can 
launch  the  shaft  from  the  silver  bow — yet  was  there  something 
in  the  mien  and  face  of  Percalus  more  subdued  and  bashful 
than  in  those  of  most  of  the  girls  around  her  ;  and,  as  if  her 
ear  had  caught  Lysander's  words,  a  smile  just  now  played 
around  her  lips,  and  gave  to  all  the  countenance  a  wonderful 
sweetness.  Then,  as  it  became  her  turn  once  more  to  join  in 
the  circling  measure  she  lifted-  her  eyes,  directed  them  full 
upon  the  young  Spartan,  and  the  eyes  said  plainly  :  "  Ungrate- 
ful !  1  forget  thee  !  I !  " 

It  was  but  one  glance,  and  she  seemed  again  wholly  intent 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  149 

upon  the  dance ;  but  Lysander  felt  as  if  be  had  tasted  the 
nectar,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  courts  of  the  Gods.  No 
further  approach  was  made  by  either,  although  intervals  in  the 
evening  permitted  it.  But  if  on  the  one  hand  there  was  in 
Sparta  an  intercourse  between  the  youth  of  both  sexes  wholly 
unknown  in  most  of  the  Grecian  States,  and  if  that  intercourse 
made  marriages  of  love  especially  more  common  there  than 
elsewhere,  yet,  when  love  did  actually  exist,  and  was  acknowl- 
edged by  some  young  pair,  they  shunned  public  notice  ;  the 
passion  became  a  secret,  or  confidants  to  it  were  few.  Then 
came  the  charm  of  stealth  :  to  woo  and  to  win,  as  if  the  treas- 
ure were  to  be  robbed  by  a  lover  from  the  Heaven  unknown  to 
man.  Accordingly  Lysander  now  mixed  with  the  spectators, 
conversed  cheerfully,  only  at  distant  intervals  permitted  his 
eyes  to  turn  to  Percalus,  and  when  her  part  in  the  chorus  had 
concluded,  a  sign,  undetected  by  others,  seemed  to  have  been 
exchanged  between  them,  and,  a  little  while  after,  Lysander 
had  disappeared  from  the  assembly. 

He  wandered  down  the  street  called  the  Aphetais,  and  after 
a  little  while  the  way  became  perfectly  still  and  lonely,  for  the 
inhabitants  had  crowded  to  the  sacred  festival,  and  the  houses 
lay  quiet  and  scattered.  So  he  went  on,  passing  the  ancient 
temple  in  which  Ulysses  is  said  to  have  dedicated  a  statue  in 
honor  of  his  victory  in  the  race  over  the  suitors  of  Penelope, 
and  paused  where  the  ground  lay  bare  and  rugged  around  many 
a  monument  to  the  fabled  chiefs  of  the  heroic  age.  Upon  a 
crag  that  jutted  over  a  silent  hollow,  covered  with  oleander 
and  arbute  and  here  and  there  the  wild  rose,  the  young  lover 
sat  down,  waiting  patiently  ;  for  the  eyes  of  Percalus  had  told 
him  he  should  not  wait  in  vain.  Afar  he  saw,  in  the  exceed- 
ing clearness  of  the  atmosphere,  the  Taenarium  or  Temple  of 
Neptune,  unprophetic  of  the  dark  connection  that  shrine  would 
hereafter  have  with  him  whom  he  then  honored  as  a  chief 
worthy,  after  death,  of  a  monument  amidst  those  heroes  :  and 
the  gale  that  cooled  his  forehead  wandered  to  him  from  the 
field  of  the  Hellanium  in  which  the  envoys  of  Greece  hnd 
taken  council  how  to  oppose  the  march  of  Xerxes,  when  his 
myriads  first  poured  into  Europe. 

Alas,  all  the  great  passions  that  distinguish  race  from  race 
pass  away  in  the  tide  of  generations.  The  enthusiasm  of  soul 
which  gives  us  heroes  and  demi-gods  for  ancestors,  and  hallows 
their  empty  tombs ;  the  vigor  of  thoughtful  freedom  which 
guards  the  soil  from  invasion,  and  shivers  force  upon  the  edge 
of  intelligence  ;  the  heroic  age  and  the  civilized  alike  depart  j 


150  PAUSAN1AS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

and  he  who  wanders  through  the  glens  of  Laconia  can  scarcely 
guess  where  was  the  monument  of  Lelex,  or  the  field  of  the 
Hellanium.  And  yet  on  the  same  spot  where  sat  the  young 
Spartan  warrior,  waiting  for  the  steps  of  the  beloved  one,  may 
at  this  very  hour,  some  rustic  lover  be  seated,  with  a  heart 
beating  with  like  emotions,  and  an  ear  listening  for  as  light  a 
tread.  Love  alone  never  passes  away  from  the  spot  where  its 
footstep  hath  once  pressed  the  earth,  and  reclaimed  the  savage. 
Traditions,  freedom,  the  thirst  for  glory,  art,  laws,  creeds, 
vanish  :  but  the  eye  thrills  the  breast,  and  hand  warms  to  hand, 
as  before  the  name  of  Lycurgus  was  heard,  or  Helen  was  borne 
a  bride  to  the  home  of  Menelaus.  Under  the  influence  of  this 
power,  then,  something  of  youth  is  still  retained  by  nations  the 
most  worn  with  time.  But  the  power  thus  eternal  in  nations 
is  shortlived  for  the  individual  being.  Brief,  indeed,  in  the 
life  of  each  is  that  season  which  lasts  forever  in  the  life  of  all. 
From  the  old  age  of  nations  glory  fades  away  ;  but  in  their 
utmost  decrepitude  there  is  still  a  generation  young  enough  to 
love.  To  the  individual  man,  however,  glory  aione  remains 
when  the  snows  of  ages  have  fallen,  and  love  is  but  the  memory 
of  a  boyish  dream.  No  wonder  that  the  Greek  genius,  half- 
incredulous  of  the  soul,  clung  with  such  tenacity  to  Youth. 
What  a  sigh  from  the  heart  of  the  old  sensuous  world  breathes 
in  the  strain  of  Mimnermus,  bewailing  with  so  fierce  and  so 
deep  a  sorrow  the  advent  of  the  years  in  which  man  is  loved  no 
more  ! 

Lysander's  eye  was  still  along  the  solitary  road,  when  he 
heard  a  low  musical  laugh  behind  him.  He  started  in  sur- 
prise, and  beheld  Percalus.  Her  mirth  was  increased  by  his 
astonished  gaze,  till,  in  revenge,  he  caught  both  her  hands,  and 
drawing  her  towards  him,  kissed,  not  without  a  struggle,  the 
lips  into  serious  gravity. 

Extricating  herself  from  him,  the  maiden  put  on  an  air  of 
offended  dignity,  and  Lysander,  abashed  at  his  own  audacity, 
muttered  some  broken  words  of  penitence. 

"But  indeed,"  he  added,  as  he  saw  the  cloud  vanishing  from 
her  brow  ;  "  indeed  thou  wert  so  provoking,  and  so  irresistibly 
beauteous.  And  how  earnest  thou  here,  as  if  thou  hadst 
dropped  from  the  heavens  ?" 

"  Didst  thou  think,"  answered  Percalus  demurely,  "that  I 
could  be  suspected  of  following  thee  ?  Nay  ;  I  tarried  till  I 
could  accompany  Euryclea  to  her  home  yonder,  and  then  slip- 
ping from  her  by  her  door,  I  came  across  the  grass  and  the 
glen  to  search  for  the  arrow  shot  yesterday  in  the  hollow  below 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  151 

thee."  So  saying,  she  tripped  from  the  crag  by  his  side  into 
the  nooked  recess  below,  which  was  all  out  of  sight,  in  case 
some  passenger  should  pass  the  road,  and  where,  stooping 
down,  she  seemed  to  busy  herself  in  searching  for  the  shaft 
amidst  the  odorous  shrubs. 

Lysander  was  not  slow  in  following  her  footstep. 

"  Thine  arrow  is  here,"  said  he,  placing  his  hand  to  his  heart. 

"Fie  !     The  Ionian  poets  teach  thee  these  compliments." 

"  Not  so.  Who  hath  sung  more  of  Love  and  his  arrows  than 
our  own  Alcman  ? " 

"  Mean  you  the  Regent's  favorite  brother  ?  " 

"  Oh  no !  The  Ancient  Alcman  ;  the  poet  whom  even  the 
Ephors  sanction." 

Percalus  ceased  to  seek  for  the  arrow,  and  they  seated  them- 
selves on  a  little  knoll  in  the  hollow,  side  by  side,  and  frankly 
she  gave  him  her  hand,  and  listened,  with  rosy  cheek  and  rising 
bosom,  to  his  honest  wooing.  He  told  her  truly,  how  her 
image  had  been  with  him  in  strange  lands  ;  how  faithful  he 
had  been  to  the  absent,  amidst  all  the  beauties  of  the  Isles  and 
of  the  East.  He  reminded  her  of  their  early  days — how,  even 
as  children,  each  had  sought  the  other.  He  spoke  of  his 
doubts,  his  fears,  lest  he  should  find  himself  forgotten  or  re- 
placed ;  and  how  overjoyed  he  had  been  when  at  last  her  eye 
replied  to  his. 

"  And  we  understood  each  other  so  well,  did  we  not,  Percalus  ? 
Here  we  have  so  often  met  before  ;  here  we  parted  last  ;  here 
thou  knewest  I  should  go  ;  here  I  knew  that  I  might  await 
thee." 

Percalus  did  not  answer  at  much  length,  but  what  she  said 
sufficed  to  enchant  her  lover.  For  the  education  of  a  Spartan 
maid  did  not  favor  the  affected  concealment  of  real  feelings. 
It  could  not,  indeed,  banish  what  Nature  prescribes  to 
women — the  modest  self-esteem — the  difficulty  to  utter  by 
word,  what  eye  and  blush  reveal — nor,  perhaps,  something  of 
that  arch  and  innocent  malice,  which  enjoys  to  taste  the  power 
which  beauty  exercises  before  the  warm  heart  will  freely 
acknowledge  the  power  which  sways  itself.  But  the  girl, 
though  a  little  wilful  and  high-spirited,  was  a  candid,  pure,  and 
noble  creature,  and  too  proud  of  being  loved  by  Lysander  to 
feel  more  than  a  maiden's  shame  to  confess  her  own. 

"And  when  I  return,"  said  the  Spartan,  "ah,  then  look  out 
and  take  care  ;  for  I  shall  speak  to  thy  father,  gain  his  consent 
to  our  betrothal,  and  then  carry  thee  away,  despite  all  thy  strug- 
gles, to  the  bridesmaid,  and  these  long  locks,  alas,  will  fall." 


152  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

"  I  thank  thee  for  thy  warning,  and  will  find  my  arrow  in  time 
to  guard  myself,"  said  Percalus,  turning  away  her  face,  but 
holding  up  her  hand  in  pretty  menace  ;  "  but  where  is  the 
arrow?  I  must  make  haste  and  find  it." 

"Thou  wilt  have  time  enough,  courteous  Amazon  in  mine 
absence,  for  I  must  soon  return  to  Byzantium." 

PERCALUS. — Art  thou  so  sure  of  that? 

LYSANDER.     Why — dost  thou  doubt  it  ? 

PERCALUS  (rising  and  moving  the  arbute  boughs  aside  with 
the  tip  of  her  sandal) — 'And,  unless  thou  wouldst  wait  very  long 
for  my  father's  consent,  perchance  thoumayst  have  to  ask  for  it 
very  soon — too  soon  to  prepare  thy  courage  for  so  great  a  peril. 

LYSANDER  (perplexed). — What  canst  thou  mean?  By  all  the 
Gods,  I  pray  thee  speak  plain. 

PERCALUS. — If  Pausanias  be  recalled,  wouldst  thou  still  go  to 
Byzantium  ? 

LYSANDER. — No  ;  but  I  think  the  Ephors  have  decided  not 
so  to  discredit  their  General. 

PERCALUS  (shaking  her  head  incredulously). — Count  not  on 
their  decision  r-o  surely,  valiant  warrior ;  and  suppose  that 
Pausanias  is  recalled,  and  that  some  one  else  is  sent  in  his 
place  whose  absence  would  prevent  thy  obtaining  that  consent 
thou  covetest,  and  so  frustrate  thy  designs  on — on  (she  added, 
blushing  scarlet) — on  these  poor  locks  of  mine. 

LYSANDER  (starting). — Oh,  Percalus,  do  I  conceive  thee 
aright  ?  Hast  thou  any  reason  to  think  that  thy  father  Dorcis 
will  be  sent  to  replace  Pausanias — the  great  Pausanias? 

PERCALUS  (a  little  offended  at  a  tone  of  expression  which 
seemed  to  slight  her  father's  pretensions). — Dorcis,  my  father, 
is  a  warrior  whom  Sparta  reckons  second  to  none  ;  a  most  brave 
captain,  and  every  inch  a  Spartan  ;  but — but — 

LYSANDER. — Percalus,  do  not  trifle  with  me.  Thou  knowest 
how  my  fate  has  been  linked  to  the  Regent's.  Thou  must 
have  intelligence  not  shared  even  by  my  father,  himself  an 
Ephor. — What  is  it? 

PERCALUS. — Thou  wilt  be  secret,  my  Lysander,  for  what  I 
may  tell  thee  I  can  only  learn  at  the  hearth-stone. 

LYSANDER. — Fear  me  not.     Is  not  all  between  us  a  secret? 

PERCALUS. — Well,  then,  Periclides  and  my  father,  as  thou  art 
aware,  are  near  kinsmen.  And  when  the  Ionian  Envoys  first 
arrived,  it  was  my  father  who  was  specially  appointed  to  see  to 
their  fitting  entertainment.  And  that  same  night  I  overheard 
Dorcis  say  to  my  mother,  "If  I  could  succeed  Pausanias,  and 
conclude  this  war,  I  should  be  consoled  for  not  having  com- 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  153 

manded  at  Plataea."  And  my  mother,  who  is  proud  for  her 
husband's  glory,  as  a  woman  should  be,  said  :  "  Why  not  strain 
every  nerve  as  for  a  crown  in  Olympia  ?  Periclides  will  aid 
thee — thou  wilt  win." 

LYSANDER. — But  that  was  the  first  night  of  the  lonians* 
arrival. 

PERCALUS. — Since  then,  I  believe  that  thy  father  and  others 
of  the  Ephors  overruled  Periclides  and  Zeuxidamus,  for  I  have 
heard  all  that  passed  between  my  father  and  mother  on  the 
subject.  But  early  this  morning,  while  my  mother  was  assist- 
ing to  attire  me  for  the  festival,  Periclides  himself  called  at  our 
house,  and  before  I  came  from  home,  my  mother,  after  a  short 
conference  with  Dorcis,  and  to  me,  in  the  exuberance  of  her 
joy  :  "  Go,  child,  and  call  here  all  the  maidens,  as  thy  father 
ere  long  will  go  to  outshine  all  the  Grecian  chiefs."  So  that  if 
my  father  does  go,  thou  wilt  remain  in  Sparta.  Then,  my  be- 
loved Lysander — and — and — but  what  ails  thee  ?  Is  that 
thought  sorrowful  ? 

LYSANDER. — Pardon  me,  pardon  ;  thou  art  a  Spartan  maid  ; 
thou  must  comprehend  what  should  be  felt  by  a  Spartan  soldier 
when  he  thinks  of  humiliation  and  ingratitude  to  his  chief. 
Gods  !  the  man  who  rolled  back  the  storm  of  the  Mede  to  be 
insulted  in  the  face  of  Hellas  by  the  government  of  his  native 
city  !  The  blush  of  shame  upon  his  cheek  burns  my  own. 

The  warrior  bowed  his  face  in  his  clasped  hands. 

Not  a  resentful  thought  to  female  vanity  and  exacting  affec- 
tion then  crossed  the  mind  of  the  Spartan  girl.  She  felt  at 
once,  by  the  sympathy  of  kindred  nature,  all  that  was  torturing 
her  lover.  She  was  even  prouder  of  him  that  he  forgot  her  for 
the  moment  to  be  so  truthful  to  his  chief  ;  and  abandoning  the 
innocent  coyness  she  had  before  shown,  she  put  her  arm  round 
his  neck  with  a  pure  and  sisterly  fondness,  and,  kissing  his  brow, 
whispered  soothingly  :  "  It  is  for  me  to  ask  pardon,  that  I  did 
not  think  of  this — that  I  spoke  so  foolishly  ;  but  comfort — thy 
chief  is  not  disgraced  even  by  recall.  Let  them  recall  Pausanias, 
they  cannot  recall  his  glory.  When,  in  Sparta,  did  we  ever  hold 
a  brave  man  discredited  by  obedience  to  the  government  ? 
None  are  disgraced  who  not  disgrace  themselves." 

"  Ah  !  my  Percalus,  so  I  should  say  ;  but  so  will  not  think 
Pausanias,  nor  the  allies  ;  and  in  this  slight  to  him  I  see  the 
shadow  of  the  Erinnys.  But  it  may  not  be  true  yet ;  nor  can 
Periclides  of  himself  dispose  thus  of  the  Lacedaemonian  armies." 

"  We  will  hope  so,  dear  Lysander,"  said  Percalus,  who,  born 
to  be  man's  helpmate,  then  only  thought  of  consoling  and  cheer- 


154  PAUSANIAS,   THE   SPARTAN. 

ing  him.  "  And  if  thou  dost  return  to  the  camp,  tarry  as 
long  as  thou  wilt,  thou  wilt  find  Percalus  the  same." 

"The  Gods  bless  thee,  maiden  !  "  said  Lysander,  with  grate- 
ful passion,  "  and  blessed  be  the  State  that  rears  such  women  ; 
elsewhere  Greece  knows  them  not." 

"And  does  Greece  elsewhere  know  such  men  ?"  asked  Per- 
calus, raising  her  graceful  head.  "  But  so  late — is  it  possible  ? 
See  where  the  shadows  are  falling  !  Thou  wilt  but  be  in  time 
for  thy  pheidition.  Farewell." 

"  But  when  to  meet  again  ?" 

"  Alas !  when  we  can."  She  sprang  lightly  away ;  then, 
turning  her  face  as  she  fled,  added  :  "  Look  out !  thou  wert 
taught  to  steal  in  thy  boyhood — steal  an  interview.  I  will  be 
thy  accomplice." 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THAT  night,  as  Agesilaus  was  leaving  the  public  table  at 
•which  he  supped,  Periclides,  who  was  one  of  the  same  company, 
but  who  had  been  unusually  silent  during  the  entertainment, 
approached  him,  and  said  :  "  Let  us  walk  towards  thy  home 
together  ;  the  moon  is  up,  and  will  betray  listeners  to  our  con- 
verse should  there  be  any." 

"And  in  default  of  the  moon,  thy  years,  if  not  yet  mine, 
permit  thee  a  lanthorn,  Periclides." 

"  I  have  not  drunk  enough  to  need  it,"  answered  the  Chief 
of  the  Ephors,  with  unusual  pleasantry  ;  "  but  as  thou  art  the 
younger  man,  I  will  lean  on  thine  arm,  so  as  to  be  closer  to 
thine  ear." 

"  Thou  hast  something  secret  and  grave  to  say,  then  ?  " 

Periclides  nodded. 

As  they  ascended  the  rugged  acclivity,  different  groups, 
equally  returning  home  from  the  public  tables,  passed  them. 
Though  the  sacred  festival  had  given  excuse  for  prolonging 
the  evening  meal,  and  the  wine-cup  had  been  replenished  be- 
yond the  abstemious  wont,  still  each  little  knot  of  revellers 
passed,  and  dispersed  in  a  sober  and  decorous  quiet  which  per- 
haps no  other  eminent  city  in  Greece  could  have  exhibited  ; 
young  and  old  equally  grave  and  noiseless.  For  the  Spartan 
youth,  no  fair  Hetserae  then  opened  homes  adorned  with 
flowers,  and  gay  with  wit,  no  less  than  alluring  with  beauty  ; 
but  as  the  streets  grew  more  deserted,  there  stood  in  the  thick 
shadow  of  some  angle,  or  glided  furtively  by  some  winding 
wall,  a  bridegroom  lover,  tarrying  till  all  was  still,  to  steal  to  the 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  155 

arms  of  the  lawful  wife,  whom  for  years  perhaps  he  might  not 
openly  acknowledge,  and  carry  in  triumph  to  his  home. 

But  not  of  such  young  adventurers  thought  the  sage  Peri- 
elides,  though  his  voice  was  as  low  as  a  lover's  "hist !"  and 
his  step  as  stealthy  as  a  bridegroom's  tread. 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  with  the  faint  gray  of  the  dawn 
there  comes  to  my  house  a  new  messenger  from  the  camp,  and 
the  tidings  he  brings  change  all  our  decisions.  The  Festival 
does  not  permit  us  as  Ephors  to  meet  in  public,  or,  at  least,  I 
think  thou  wilt  agree  with  me  it  is  more  prudent  not  to  do  so. 
AH  we  should  do  now  should  be  in  strict  privacy." 

"  But  hush  !  from  whom  the  message — Pausanias  ?" 

"  No — from  Aristides  the  Athenian." 

"And  to  what  effect?" 

"  The  lonians  have  revolted  from  the  Spartan  hegemony  and 
ranged  themselves  under  the  Athenian  flag." 

"Gods  !  what  I  feared  has  already  come  to  pass." 

"And  Aristides  writes  to  me,  with  whom  you  remember  that 
he  has  the  hospitable  ties,  that  the  Athenians  cannot  abandon 
their  Ionian  allies  and  kindred  who  thus  appeal  to  them,  and 
that  if  Pausanias  remain,  open  war  may  break  out  between  the 
two  divisions  into  which  the  fleet  of  Hellas  is  now  rent." 

"  This  must  not  be,  for  it  would  be  war  at  sea  ;  we  and  the 
Peloponnesians  have  far  the  fewer  vessels,  the  less  able  seamen. 
Sparta  would  be  conquered." 

"  Rather  than  Sparta  should  be  conquered,  must  we  not  re- 
call her  General  ?  " 

"  I  would  give  all  my  lands,  and  sink  out  of  the  rank  of 
Equal,  that  this  had  not  chanced,"  said  Agesilaus  bitterly. 

"  Hist !  hist  !  not  so  loud." 

"  I  had  hoped  we  might  induce  the  Regent  himself  to  resign 
the  command,  and  so  have  been  spared  the  shame  and  the  pain 
of  an  act  that  affects  the  hero-blood  of  our  kings.  Could  not 
that  be  done  yet  ?  " 

"  Dost  thou  think  so  ?  Pausanias  resign  in  the  midst  of  a 
mutiny  ?  Thou  canst  not  know  the  man." 

"  Thou  art  right — impossible.  I  see  no  option  now.  He 
must  be  recalled.  But  the  Spartan  hegemony  is  then  gone — 
gone  forever — gone  to  Athens." 

"  Not  so.  Sparta  hath  many  a  worthy  son  beside  this  too 
arrogant  Heracleid." 

"Yes  ;  but  where  his  genius  of  command?  Where  his  im- 
mense renown  ?  Where  a  man,  I  say,  not  in  Sparta,  but  in  all 
Greece,  fit  to  cope  with  Aristides  and  Cimon  in  the  camp,  with 


156  PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN. 

Themistocles  in  the  city  of  our  rivals  !  If  Pausanias  fails,  who 
succeeds?" 

"Be  not  deceived.  What  must  be,  must ;  it  is  but  a  little 
time  earlier  that  Necessity  would  have  fixed.  Wouldst  thou 
take  the  command  ? " 

"I?     i"he  Gods  forbid." 

"  Then,  if  thou  wilt  not,  I  know  but  one  man." 

"  And  who  is  he  ?  " 

"  Dorcis." 

Agesilaus  started,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  gazed  full 
upon  the  face  of  the  chief  Ephor. 

"  Thy  kinsman,  Dorcis  ?  Ah,  Periclides,  hast  thou  schemed 
this  from  the  first  ?  " 

Periclides  changed  color  at  finding  himself  thus  abruptly 
detected,  and  as  abruptly  charged  ;  however,  he  answered  with 
laconic  dryness  : 

"  Friend,  did  I  scheme  the  revolt  of  the  lonians  ?  But  if 
thou  knowest  a  better  man  than  Dorcis,  speak.  Is  he  not 
brave  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"Skilful?" 

"No.  Tut !  thou  art  as  conscious  as  I  am  that  thou  might- 
est  as  well  compare  the  hat  on  thy  brow  to  the  brain  it  hides  as 
liken  the  solid  Dorcis  to  the  fiery  but  profound  Heracleid." 

"  Ay,  ay.  But  there  is  one  merit  the  hat  has  which  the  brow 
has  not — it  can  do  no  harm.  Shall  we  send  our  chiefs  to  be 
made  worse  men  by  Eastern  manners?  Dorcis  has  dull  wit, 
granted  ;  no  arts  can  corrupt  it  ;  he  may  not  save  the  hege- 
mony, but  he  will  return  as  he  went,  a  Spartan." 

"Thou  art  right  again,  and  a  wise  man,  Periclides.  I  sub- 
mit. Thou  hast  my  vote  for  Dorcis.  What  else  hast  thou 
designed  ?  For  I  see  now  that  whatever  thou  designest  that 
wilt  thou  accomplish  ;  and  our  meeting  on  the  Archeion  is  but 
an  idle  form." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Periclides,  with  his  austere  smile,  "thou 
givest  me  a  wit  and  a  will  that  I  have  not.  But  as  chief  of 
the  Ephors  I  watch  over  the  State.  And  though  I  design 
nothing,  this  I  would  counsel :  On  the  day  we  answer  the 
lonians,  we  shall  tell  them,  'What  ye  ask,  we  long  since  pro- 
posed to  do.  And  Dorcis  is  already  on  the  seas  as  successor 
to  Pausanias.' " 

"  When  will  Dorcis  leave  ?"  said  Agesilaus  curtly. 

"  If  the  other  Ephors  concur,  to-morrow  night." 

"  Here  we  are  at  my  doors,  wilt  thou  not  enter  ?  " 


PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN.  157 

"  No.  I  have  others  yet  to  see.  I  knew  we  should  be  of 
the  same  mind." 

Agesilaus  made  no  reply  ;  but  as  he  entered  the  courtyard 
of  his  house,  he  muttered  uneasily  : 

"  And  if  Lysander  is  right,  and  Sparta  is  too  small  for  Pau- 
sanias,  do  not  we  bring  back  a  giant  who  will  widen  it  to  his 
own  girth,  and  raze  the  old  foundations  to  make  room  for  the 
buildings  he  would  add  ?" 

*  ****** 

(UNFINISHED.) 

[THE  pages  covered  by  the  manuscript  of  this  uncompleted 
story  of  "  Pausanias  "  are  scarcely  more  numerous  than  those 
which  its  author  has  filled  with  the  notes  made  by  him  from 
works  consulted  with  special  reference  to  the  subject  of  it. 
Those  notes  (upon  Greek  and  Persian  antiquities)  are  wholly 
without  interest  for  the  general  public.  They  illustrate  the 
author's  conscientious  industry,  but  they  afford  no  clue  to  the 
plot  of  his  romance.  Under  the  sawdust,  however,  thus  fallen 
in  the  industrial  process  of  an  imaginative  work,  unhappily 
unfinished,  I  found  two  specimens  of  original  composition. 
They  are  rough  sketches  of  songs  expressly  composed  for 
"  Pausanias  ";  and,  since  they  are  not  included  in  the  foregoing 
portion  of  it,  I  think  they  may  properly  be  added  here.  The 
unrhymed  lyrics  introduced  by  my  father  into  some  of  the 
opening  chapters  of  this  romance  appear  to  have  been  sug- 
gested by  some  fragments  of  Mimnermus,  and  composed  about 
the  same  time  as  "  The  Lost  Tales  of  Miletus."  Indeed,  one 
of  them  has  been  already  printed  in  that  work.  The  following 
verses,  however,  which  are  rhymed,  bear  evidence  of  having 
been  composed  at  a  much  earlier  period.  I  know  not  whether 
it  was  my  father's  intention  to  discard  them  altogether,  or  to 
alter  them  materially,  or  to  insert  them  without  alteration  in 
some  later  portion  of  the  romance.  But  I  print  them  here  pre- 
cisely as  they  are  written. — L.] 


FOR  PAUSANIAS. 

[Partially  borrowed  from  Aristophanes'  "Peace" — v,  1127,  etc.] 
AWAY,  away,  with  the  helm  and  greaves, 

Away  wiih  the  leeks  and  cheese  !  * 

*  Tvpov  re  KOI  KpOfifiiuv,     Cheese  and  onions,  the  rations  furnished  to  soldiers  in 
campaign. 


158  PAUSANIAS,    THE    SPARTAN. 

I  have  conquered  my  passion  for  wounds  and  blows. 
And  the  worst  that  I  wKh  to  the  worst  of  my  foes 

Is  the  glory  and  gain 

Of  a  year's  campaign 
On  a  diet  of  leeks  and  cheese. 


I  love  to  drink  by  my  own  warm  hearth, 
Nourisht  with  logs  from  the  pine-clad  heights, 

Which  were  hewn  in  the  blaze  of  the  summer  sun 
To  treasure  his  rays  for  the  winter  nights 

On  the  hearth  where  my  grandam  spun. 

I  love  to  drink  of  the  grape  I  press, 

And  to  drink  with  a  friend  of  yore  ; 
Quick  !  bring  me  a  bough  from  the  myrtle  tree 

Which  is  budding  afresh  by  Nicander's  door. 
Tell  Nicander  himself  he  must  sup  with  me, 
And  along  with  the  bough  from  his  myrtle  tree 
We  will  circle  the  lute,  in  a  choral  glee 

To  the  goddess  of  corn  and  peace. 
For  Nicander  and  I  were  fast  friends  at  school. 
Here  He  comes  !     We  are  boys  once  more. 

When  the  grasshopper  chaunts  in  the  bells  of  thyme 
I  love  to  watch  if  the  Lemnian  grape  * 
Is  donning  the  purple  that  decks  its  prime  ; 
And  as  I  sit  at  my  porch  to  see, 
With  my  little  one  trying  to  scale  my  knee. 
To  join  in  the  grasshopper's  chaunt,  and  sing 
To  Apollo  and  Pan  from  the  heart  of  Spring,  f 
Listen,  O  list ! 

Hear  ye  not,  neighbors,  the  voice  of  Peace  ? 
"  The  swallow  I  hear  in  the  household  eaves." 

lo  ^Egien  !     Peace  ! 
"  And  the  skylark  at  poise  o'er  the  bended  sheaves.* 

lo  yEgien  !     Peace  ! 

Here  and  there,  everywhere,  hear  we  Peace  ! 
Hear  her,  and  see  her,  and  clasp  her — Peace  ! 
The  grasshopper  chaunts  in  the  bells  of  thyme, 
And  the  halcyon  is  back  to  her  nest  in  Greece  ! 


IN  PRAISE  OF  THE  ATHENIAN  KNIGHTS. 
[Imitated  from  the  "Knights  "  of  Aristophanes,  v.  565,  etc.] 

CHAUNT  the  fame  of  the  Knights,  or  in  war  or  in  peace, 
Chaunt  the  darlings  of  Athens,:):  the  bulwarks  of  Greece, 

*It  ripened  earlier  than  the  others.     The  words  of  the  chorus  are,    rdf 
el  ireiraivovaiv  fjir). 


t  Variation  —  "  What  a  blessing  is  life  in  a  noon  of  Spring." 

$  Variation—       "  The  adorners  of  Athens,  the  bulwarks  of  Greece." 


PAUSANIAS,    THE   SPARTAN.  159 

Pressing  foremost  to  glory,  on  wave  and  on  shore, 
Where  the  steed  has  no  footing  they  win  with  the  oar.* 

On  their  bosoms  the  battle  splits,  wasting  its  shock, 
If  they  charge  like  the  whirlwind,  they  stand  like  the  rock. 
Ha  !  they  count  not  the  numbers,  they  scan  not  the  ground, 
When  a  toe  comes  in  sight  on  his  lances  they  bound . 

Fails  a  foot  in  its  speed  ?  heed  it  not.     One  and  all  f 
Spurn  the  earth  that  they  spring  from,  and  own  not  a  fall. 
O  the  darlings  of  Athens,  the  bulwarks  of  Greece, 
Wherefore  envy  the  lovelocks  they  perfume  in  peace  ! 

Wherefore  scowl  if  they  fondle  a  quail  or  a  dove,  u 

Or  inscribe  on  a  myrtle  the  names  that  they  love  ? 
Does  Alcides  not  teach  us  how  valor  is  mild  ? 
Lo,  at  rest  from  his  labors  he  plays  with  a  child. 

When  the  slayer  of  Python  has  put  down  his  bow, 
By  his  lute  and  his  lovelocks  Apollo  we  know, 
Fear'd,  O  rowers,  those  gallants  their  beauty  to  spoil 
When  they  sat  on  your  benches,  and  shared  in  your  toil  ! 

When  with  laughter  they  row'd  to  your  cry  "  Hippopai," 
"  On,  ye  coursers  of  wood,  for  the  palm  wreath,  away  !  " 
Did  those  dainty  youths  ask  you  to  store  in  your  holds 
Or  a  cask  from  their  crypt  or  a  lamb  from  their  folds  ? 

No,  they  cried,  "  We  are  here  both  to  fight  and  to  fast, 
Place  us  first  in  the  fight,  at  the  board  serve  us  last ! 
Wheresoever  is  peril,  we  knights  lead  the  way, 
Wheresoever  is  hardship,  we  claim  it  as  pay. 

"  Call  us  proud,  O  Athenians,  we  know  it  full  well, 
And  we  give  you  the  life  we're  too  haughty  to  sell." 
Hail  the  stoutest  in  war,  hail  the  mildest  in  peace, 
Hail  the  darlings  of  Athens,  the  bulwarks  of  Greece  ! 

*  Variation — 

"  Keenest  racers  to  glory,  on  wave  or  on  shore, 

By  the  rush  of  the  steed  or  the  stroke  of  the  oar  !  " 
t  Variation — 

"  Falls  there  one  ?  never  help  him  !   Our  knights  one  and  all." 


THE    END. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  THE  ANTECHAMBER, i 

II.  THE  LOVER  AND  THE  CONFIDANT, n 

III.  A  RIVAL,       .        .       v       •-• 15 

IV  CIVIL  AMBITION,  AND  ECCLESIASTICAL,    .  19 

V.  THE  TRUE  FATA  MORGANA, 21 

VI.  WEB  UPON  WEB,       . 25 

VII.  THE  OPEN  COUNTENANCE,  THE  CONCEALED  THOUGHTS,      .  29 

VIII.  THE  ESCAPE,     .        .        . ' 32 

IX.  THE  COUNTERPLOT, 42 

X.  WE  REAP  WHAT  WE  Sow 46 

XI.  HOWSOEVER  THE  RIVERS  WIND,  THE  OCEAN  RECEIVES  THEM 

ALL,                                                48 


CALDERON,  THE  COURTIER. 

A   TALE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    ANTECHAMBER. 

THE  Tragi-Comedy  of  Court  Intrigue,  which  had  ever  found 
its  principal  theatre  in  Spain  since  the  accession  of  the  House 
of  Austria  to  the  throne,  was  represented  with  singular  compli- 
cation of  incident,  and  brilliancy  of  performance,  during  the 
reign  of  Philip  III.  That  monarch,  weak,  indolent,  arid  super- 
stitious, left  the  reins  of  government  in  the  hands  of  the  Duke 
of  Lerma.  The  Duke  of  Lerma,  in  his  turn,  mild,  easy,  osten- 
tatious, and  shamefully  corrupt,  resigned  the  authority  he  had 
thus  received  to  Roderigo  Calderon,  an  able  and  resolute 
upstart,  whom  nature  and  fortune  seemed  equally  to  favor  and 
endow.  But,  not  more  to  his  talents,  which  were  great,  than 
to  the  policy  of  religious  persecution  which  he  had  supported 
and  enforced,  Roderigo  Calderon  owed  his  promotion.  The 
King  and  the  Inquisition  had,  some  years  before  our  story 
opens,  resolved  upon  the  general  expulsion  of  the  Moriscos — 
the  wealthiest,  the  most  active,  the  most  industrious  portion  of 
the  population. 

"I  would  sooner,"  said  the  bigoted  King — and  his  words 
were  hallowed  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  Church — "depopulate 
my  kingdom  than  suffer  it  to  harbor  a  single  infidel." 

The  Duke  de  Lerma  entered  into  the  scheme  that  lost  to 
Spain  many  of  her  most  valuable  subjects  with  the  zeal  of  a 
pious  Catholic,  expectant  of  the  cardinal's  hat,  which  he  after- 
wards obtained.  But  to  this  scheme  Calderon  brought  an 
energy,  a  decision,  a  vehemence,  and  sagacity  of  hatred,  that 
savored  more  of  personal  vengeance  than  religious  persecution. 
His  perseverance  in  this  good  work  established  him  firmly  in 
the  King's  favor  ;  and  in  this  he  was  supported  by  the  friend- 
ship not  only  of  Lerma,  but  of  Fray  Louis  de  Aliaga,  a  renowned 
Jesuit,  and  confessor  to  the  King.  The  disasters  and  distresses 


6  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

occasioned  by  this  barbarous  crusade,  which  crippled  the  royal 
revenues,  and  seriously  injured  the  estates  of  the  principal 
barons,  from  whose  lands  the  industrious  and  intelligent  Moriscos 
were  expelled,  ultimately  concentred  a  deep  and  general  hatred 
upon  Calderon.  But  his  extraordinary  address  and  vigorous 
energies,  his  perfect  mastery  of  the  science  of  intrigue,  not  only 
sustained  but  continued  to  augment  his  port-er.  Though  the 
King  was  yet  in  the  prime  of  middle  age,  his  health  was  infirm 
and  his  life  precarious.  Calderon  had  contrived,  while  pre- 
serving the  favor  of  the  reigning  monarch,  to  establish  himself 
as  the  friend  and  companion  of  the  heir-apparent.  In  this, 
indeed,  he  had  affected  to  yield  to  the  policy  of  the  King  him- 
self ;  for  Philip  III.  had  a  wholesome  terror  of  the  possible 
ambition  of  his  son,  who  early  evinced  talents  which  might 
have  been  formidable,  but  for  passions  which  urged  him  into 
the  most  vicious  pleasures  and  the  most  extravagant  excesses. 
The  craft  of  the  King  was  satisfied  by  the  device  of  placing 
about  the  person  of  the  Infant  one  devoted  to  himself  ;  nor 
did  his  conscience,  pious  as  he  was,  revolt  at  the  profligacy 
which  his  favorite  was  said  to  participate,  and,  perhaps,  to 
encourage  ;  since  the  less  popular  the  Prince,  the  more  power- 
ful the  King. 

But,  all  this  while,  there  was  formed  a  powerful  cabal  against 
both  the  Duke  of  Lerma  and  Don  Roderigo  Calderon,  in  a 
quarter  where  it  might  least  have  been  anticipated.  The  Car- 
dinal-duke, naturally  anxious  to  cement  and  perpetuate  his 
authority,  had  placed  his  son,  the  Duke  d'Uzeda,  in  a  post  that 
gave  him  constant  access  to  the  monarch.  The  prospect  of 
power  made  Uzeda  eager  to  seize  at  once  upon  all  its  advan- 
tages ;  and  it  became  the  object  of  his  life  to  supplant  his 
father.  This  would  have  been  easy  enough  but  for  the  genius 
and  vigilance  of  Calderon,  whom  he  hated  as  a  rival,  disdained 
as  an  upstart,  and  dreaded  as  a  foe.  Philip  was  soon  aware  of 
the  contest  between  the  two  factions,  but,  in  the  true  spirit  of 
Spanish  kingcraft,  he  took  care  to  play  one  against  the  other. 
Nor  could  Calderon,  powerful  as  he  was,  dare  openly  to  seek 
the  ruin  of  Uzeda  ;  while  Uzeda,  more  rash,  and,  perhaps,  more 
ingenuous,  entered  into  a  thousand  plots  for  the  downfall  of 
the  prime  favorite. 

The  frequent  missions,  principally  into  Portugal,  in  which 
of  late  Calderon  had  been  employed,  had  allowed  Uzeda  to  en- 
croach more  and  more  upon  the  royal  confidence  ;  while  the 
very  means  which  Don  Roderigo  had  adopted  to  perpetuate 
his  influence,  by  attaching  himself  to  the  Prince,  necessarily 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  7 

distracted  his  attention  from  the  intrigues  of  his  rival.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  the  greatness  of  Calderon's  abilities  made  him  too 
arrogantly  despise  the  machinations  of  the  Duke,  who,  though 
not  without  some  capacities  as  a  courtier,  was  wholly  incom- 
petent to  those  duties  of  a  minister  on  which  he  had  set  his 
ambition  and  his  grasp. 

Such  was  the  state  of  parties  in  the  Court  of  Philip  III.  at 
the  time  in  which  we  commence  our  narrative  in  the  antecham- 
ber of  Don  Roderigo  Calderon. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  endured,"  said  Don  Felix  de  Castro,  an  old 
noble,  whose  sharp  features  and  diminutive  stature  proclaimed 
the  purity  of  his  blood  and  the  antiquity  of  his  descent. 

"  Just  three  quarters  of  an  hour  and  five  minutes  have  I 
waited  for  audience  to  a  fellow  who  would  once  have  thought 
himself  honored  if  I  had  ordered  him  to  call  my  coach,"  said 
Don  Diego  Sarmiento  de  Mendo. 

"  Then,  if  it  chafe  you  so  much,  gentlemen,  why  come  you 
here  at  all.  I  dare  say  Don  Roderigo  can  dispense  with  your 
attendance." 

This  was  said  bluntly  by  a  young  noble  of  good  mien, 
whose  impetuous  and  irritable  temperament  betrayed  itself  by 
an  impatience  of  gesture  and  motion  unusual  amongst  his 
countrymen.  Sometimes  he  walked,  with  uneven  strides,  to 
and  fro  the  apartments,  unheeding  the  stately  groups  whom  he 
jostled,  or  the  reproving  looks  that  he  attracted  ;  sometimes 
he  paused  abruptly,  raised  his  eyes,  muttered,  twitched  his 
cloak,  or  played  with  his  sword-knot ;  or,  turning  abruptly  round 
upon  his  solemn  neighbors,  as  some  remark  on  his  strange 
bearing  struck  his  ear,  brought  the  blood  to  many  a  haughty 
cheek  by  his  stern  gaze  of  defiance  and  disdain.  It  was  easy 
to  perceive  that  this  personage  belonged  to  the  tribe — rash, 
vain,  and  young — who  are  eager  to  take  offence,  and  to  pro- 
voke quarrel.  Nevertheless,  the  cavalier  had  noble  and  great 
qualities.  A  stranger  to  courts,  in  the  camp  he  was  renowned 
for  a  chivalrous  generosity  and  an  extravagant  valor,  that 
emulated  the  ancient  heroes  of  Spanish  romaunt  and  song. 
His  was  a  dawn  that  promised  a  hot  noon  and  a  glorious  eve. 
The  name  of  this  brave  soldier  was  Martin  Fonseca.  He  was 
of  an  ancient  but  impoverished  house,  and  related,  in  a  remote 
degree,  to  the  Duke  de  Lerma.  In  his  earliest  youth  he  had 
had  cause  to  consider  himself  the  heir  to  a  wealthy  uncle  on 
his  mother's  side  ;  and  with  those  expectations,  while  still  but 
a  boy,  he  had  been  invited  to  court  by  the  Cardinal-duke. 
Here,  however,  the  rude  and  blunt  sincerity  of  his  bearing 


8  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

had  so  greatly  shocked  the  formal  hypocrisies  of  the  court, 
and  had  more  than  once  so  seriously  offended  the  minister, 
that  his  powerful  kinsman  gave  up  all  thought  of  pushing  Fon- 
seca's  fortunes  at  Madrid,  and  meditated  some  plausible  ex- 
cuse for  banishing  him  from  court.  At  this  time  the  rich 
uncle,,  hitherto  childless,  married  a  second  time,  and  was 
blessed  with  an  heir.  It  was  no  longer  necessary  to  keep  terms 
with  Don  Martin  ;  and  he  suddenly  received  an  order  to  join 
the  army  on  the  frontiers.  Here  his  courage  soon  distinguished 
him  ;  but  his  honest  nature  still  stood  in  the  way  of  his  pro- 
motion. Several  years  elapsed,  and  his  rise  had  been  infinitely 
slower  than  that  of  men  not  less  inferior  to  him  in  birth  than 
merit.  Some  months  since  he  had  repaired  to  Madrid,  to  en- 
force his  claims  upon  the  government ;  but  instead  of  advanc- 
ing his  suit,  he  had  contrived  to  effect  a  serious  breach  with 
the  Cardinal,  and  been  abruptly  ordered  back  to  the  camp. 
Once  more  he  appeared  at  Madrid  ;  but  this  time  it  was  not 
to  plead  desert,  and  demand  honors. 

In  any  country  but  Spain,  under  the  reign  of  Philip  III., 
Martin  Fonseca  would  have  risen  early  to  high  fortunes.  But, 
as  we  have  said,  his  talents  were  not  those  of  the  flatterer  or 
the  hypocrite  ;  and  it  was  a  matter  of  astonishment  to  the  cal- 
culators round  him  to  see  Don  Martin  Fonseca  in  the  ante- 
room of  Roderigo  Calderon,  Count  Oliva,  Marquis  de  Siete 
Iglesias,  secretary  to  the  King,  and  parasite  and  favorite  of  the 
Infant  of  Spain. 

"  Why  come  you  here  at  all  ? "  repeated  the  young  soldier. 

"  Senor,"  answered  Don  Felix  de  Castro,  with  great  gravity, 
"  we  have  business  with  Don  Roderigo.  Men  of  our  station 
must  attend  to  the  affairs  of  the  state,  no  matter  by  whom 
transacted." 

"  That  is,  you  must  crawl  on  your  knees  to  ask  for  pensions 
and  governorships,  and  transact  the  affairs  of  the  state  by 
putting  your  hands  into  its  coffers." 

"  Seflor !"  growled  Don  Felix  angrily,  as  his  hand  played 
with  his  sword-belt. 

"  Tush ! "  said  the  young  man  scornfully,  turning  on  his 
heel. 

The  folding-doors  were  thrown  open,  and  all  conversation 
ceased  at  the  entrance  of  Don  Roderigo  Calderon. 

This  remarkable  personage  had  risen  from  the  situation  of  a 
confidential  scribe  to  the  Duke  of  Lerma,  to  the  nominal  rank 
of  secretary  to  the  King — to  the  real  station  of  autocrat  of 
Spain.  The  birth  of  the  favorite  of  fortune  was  exceedingly 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  9 

obscure.  He  had  long  affected  to  conceal  it  ;  but  when  he 
found  curiosity  had  proceeded  into  serious  investigation  of  his 
origin,  he  had  suddenly  appeared  to  make  a  virtue  of  necessity  : 
proclaimed,  of  his  own  accord,  that  his  father  was  a  common 
soldier  of  Valladolid  ;  and  even  invited  to  Madrid,  and  lodged 
in  his  own  palace,  his  low-born  progenitor.  This  prudent 
frankness  disarmed  malevolence  on  the  score  of  birth.  But 
when  the  old  soldier  died,  rumors  went  abroad  that  he  had  con- 
fessed, on  his  death-bed,  that  he  was  not  in  any  way  related 
to  Calderon  ;  that  he  had  submitted  to  an  imposture  which 
secured  to  his  old  age  so  respectable  and  luxurious  an  asylum  : 
and  that  he  knew  not  for  what  end  Calderon  had  forced  upon 
him  the  honors  of  spurious  parentship.  This  tale,  which,  ridi- 
culed by  most,  was  yet  believed  by  some,  gave  rise  to  darker 
reports  concerning  one  on  whom  the  eyes  of  all  Spain  were 
fixed.  It  was  supposed  that  he  had  some  motive,  beyond  that 
of  shame  at  their  meanness,  to  conceal  his  real  origin  and  name. 
What  could  be  that  motive,  if  not  the  dread  of  discovery  for 
some  black  and  criminal  offence  connected  with  his  earlier 
youth,  and  for  which  he  feared  the  prosecution  of  the  law  ? 
They  who  affected  most  to  watch  his  exterior,  averred  that 
often,  in  his  gayest  revels  and  proudest  triumphs,  his  brow 
would  lower,  his  countenance  change — and  it  was  only  by  a 
visible  and  painful  effort  that  he  could  restore  his  mind  to  its 
self-possession.  His  career,  which  evinced  an  utter  contempt 
for  the  ordinary  rules  and  scruples  that  curb  even  adventurers 
into  a  seeming  of  honesty  and  virtue,  appeared  in  some  way  to 
justify  these  reports.  But,  at  times,  flashes  of  sudden  and  bril- 
liant magnanimity  broke  forth  to  bewilder  the  curious,  to  puz- 
zle the  examiners  of  human  character,  and  to  contrast  the  gen- 
eral tenor  of  his  ambitious  and  remorseless  ascent  to  power. 
His  genius  was  confessed  by  all,  but  it  was  a  genius  that  in  no 
way  promoted  the  interests  of  his  country.  It  served  only  to 
prop,  defend,  and  advance  himself ;  to  baffle  difficulties,  to 
defeat  foes  ;  to  convert  every  accident,  every  chance,  into 
new  stepping-stones  in  his  course.  Whatever  his  birth,  it 
was  evident  that  he  had  received  every  advantage  of  educa- 
tion ;  and  scholars  extolled  his  learning  and  boasted  of  his 
patronage.  While,  more  recently,  if  the  daring  and  wild 
excesses  of  the  profligate  Prince  were,  on  the  one  hand,  popu- 
larly imputed  to  the  guidance  of  Calderon,  and  increased 
the  hatred  generally  conceived  against  him,  so,  on  the  other 
hand,  his  influence  over  the  future  monarch  seemed  to  prom- 
ise a  new  lease  to  his  authority,  and  struck  fear  into  the 


10  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

councils  of  his  foes.  In  fact,  the  power  of  the  upstart  Mar- 
quis  appeared  so  firmly  rooted,  the  career  before  him  so  splen- 
did, that  there  were  not  wanted  whisperers,  who,  in  addition  to 
his  other  crimes,  ascribed  to  Roderigo  Calderon  the  assistance 
of  the  black  art.  But  the  black  art  in  which  that  subtle  cour- 
tier was  a  proficient  is  one  that  dispenses  with  necromancy. 
It  was  the  art  of  devoting  the  highest  intellect  to  the  most  sel- 
fish purposes — an  art  that  thrives  tolerably  well,  for  a  time,  in 
the  great  world  ! 

He  had  been  for  several  weeks  absent  from  Madrid  on  a 
secret  mission  ;  and  to  this,  his  first  public  levee,  on  his  return, 
thronged  all  the  rank  and  chivalry  of  Spain. 

The  crowd  gave  way,  as,  with  haughty  air,  in  the  maturity  of 
manhood,  the  Marquis  de  Siete  Iglesias  moved  along.  He  dis- 
dained all  accessories  of  dress  to  enhance  the  effect  of  his  singu- 
larly striking  exterior.  His  mantle  and  vest  of  black  cloth, 
made  in  the  simplest  fashion,  were  unadorned  with  the  jewels 
that  then  constituted  the  ordinary  insignia  of  rank.  His  hair, 
bright  and  glossy  as  the  raven's  plume,  curled  back  from  the 
lofty  and  commanding  brow,  which,  save  by  one  deep  wrinkle 
between  the  eyes,  was  not  only  as  white,  but  as  smooth,  as 
marble.  His  features  were  aquiline  and  regular  ;  and  the 
deep  olive  of  his  complexion  seemed  pale  and  clear,  when  con- 
trasted by  the  rich  jet  of  the  moustache  and  pointed  beard. 
The  lightness  of  his  tall  and  slender,  but  muscular  form,  made 
him  appear  younger  than  he  was  ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the 
supercilious  and  scornful  arrogance  of  air  which  so  seldom 
characterizes  gentle  birth,  Calderon  might  have  mingled  with 
the  loftiest  magnates  of  Europe,  and  seemed  to  the  observer 
the  stateliest  of  the  group.  It  was  one  of  those  rare  forms  that 
are  made  to  command  the  one  sex  and  fascinate  the  other. 
But,  on  a  deeper  scrutiny,  the  restlessness  of  the  brilliant  eye, 
the  quiver  of  the  upper  lip,  a  certain  abruptness  of  manner  and 
speech,  might  have  shown  that  greatness  had  brought  suspicion 
as  well  as  pride.  The  spectators  beheld  the  huntsman  on  the 
height — the  huntsman  saw  the  abyss  below,  and  respired  with 
difficulty  the  air  above. 

The  courtiers  one  by  one  approached  the  Marquis,  who 
received  them  with  very  unequal  courtesy.  To  the  common 
herd  he  was  sharp,  dry,  and  bitter  ;  to  the  great  he  was  obsequi- 
ous, yet  with  a  certain  grace  and  manliness  of  bearing  that  ele- 
vated even  the  character  of  servility  ;  and  all  the  while,  as  he 
bowed  low  to  a  Medina  or  a  Guzman,  there  was  a  half  imper- 
ceptible mockery  lurking  in  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  whiqh 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  II 

seemed  to  imply  that,  while  his  policy  cringed,  his  heart 
despised.  To  two  or  three,  whom  he  either  personally  liked  or 
honestly  esteemed,  he  was  familiar,  but  brief,  in  his  address ; 
to  those  whom  he  had  cause  to  detest  or  to  dread — his  foes, 
his  underminers — he  assumed  a  yet  greater  frankness,  mingled 
with  the  most  caressing  insinuation  of  voice  and  manner. 

Apart  from  the  herd,  with  folded  arms,  and  an  expression  of 
countenance  in  which  much  admiration  was  blent  with  some 
curiosity  and  a  little  contempt,  Don  Martin  Fonseca  gazed 
upon  the  favorite. 

" I  have  done  this  man  a  favor,"  thought  he  :  "I  have  con- 
tributed towards  his  first  rise — I  am  now  his  suppliant.  'Faith  ! 
I,  who  have  never  found  sincerity  or  gratitude  in  the  camp, 
come  to  seek  those  hidden  treasures  at  a  court  !  Well,  we  are 
strange  puppets,  we  mortals  !  " 

Don  Diego  Sarmiento  de  Mendoza  had  just  received  the 
smiling  salutation  of  Calderon,  when  the  eye  of  the  latter  fell 
upon  the  handsome  features  of  Fonseca.  The  blood  mounted 
to  his  brow  ;  he  hastily  promised  Don  Diego  all  that  he 
desired,  and  hurrying  back  through  the  crowd,  retired  to  his 
private  cabinet.  The  levee  was  broken  up. 

As  Fonseca,  who  had  caught  the  glance  of  the  secretary, 
and  who  drew  no  favorable  omen  from  his  sudden  evanishment, 
slowly  turned  to  depart  with  the  rest,  a  young  man,  plainly 
dressed,  touched  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"You  are  Senor  Don  Martin  Fonseca  ?" 

"  The  same." 

"  Follow  me,  if  it  please  you,  Senor,  to  my  master,  Don 
Roderigo  Calderon." 

Fonseca's  face  brightened  ;  he  obeyed  the  summons  ;  and 
in  another  moment  he  was  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Sejanus  of 
Spain. 

CHAPTER    II. 

THE    LOVER    AND    THE    CONFIDANT. 

CALDERON  received  the  young  soldier  at  the  door  of  his 
chamber  with  marked  and  almost  affectionate  respect. 

"  Don  Martin,"  said  he,  and  there  seemed  a  touch  of  true 
feeling  in  the  tremor  of  his  rich,  sweet  voice,  "I  owe  you  the 
greatest  debt  one  man  can  incur  to  another — it  was  your  hand 
that  set  before  my  feet  their  first  stepping-stone  to  power.  •  I 
date  my  fortunes  from  the  hour  in  which  I  was  placed  in 
your  father's  house  as  your  preceptor.  When  the  Cardinal- 


12  CALDERON,    THE    COTTRTIER. 

duke  invited  you  to  Madrid,  I  was  your  companion  ;  and  when, 
afterwards,  you  joined  the  army,  and  required  no  longer  the 
services  of  the  peaceful  scholar,  you  demanded  of  your  illus- 
trious kinsman  the  single  favor — to  provide  for  Calderon.  I 
had  already  been  fortunate  enough  to  win  the  countenance  of 
the  Duke,  and  from  that  day  my  rise  was  rapid.  Since  then 
we  have  never  met.  Dare  I  hope  that  it  is  now  in  the  power 
of  Calderon  to  prove  himself  not  ungrateful  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Fonseca  eagerly  ;  "  it  is  in  your  power  to  save  me 
from  the  most  absolute  wretchedness  that  can  befall  me.  It  is 
in  your  power,  at  least,  I  think  so,  to  render  me  the  happiest 
of  men." 

"  Be  seated,  I  pray  you,  Senor.  And  how  ?  I  am  your  ser- 
vant." 

"  Thou  knowest,"  said  Fonseca,  "that,  though  the  kinsman, 
I  am  not  the  favorite,  of  the  Duke  of  Lerma?  " 

"  Nay,  nay,"  interrupted  Calderon  softly,  and  with  a  bland 
smile ;  "  you  misunderstand  my  illustrious  patron  :  he  loves 
you,  but  not  your  indiscretions." 

"Yes,  honesty  is  very  indiscreet !  I  cannot  stoop  to  the  life 
of  the  antechamber  ;  I  cannot,  like  the  Duke  of  Lerma,  detest 
my  nearest  relative,  if  his  shadow  cross  the  line  of  my  interests. 
I  am  of  the  race  of  Pelayo,  not  Oppas ;  and  my  profession, 
rather  that  of  an  ancient  Persian  than  a  modern  Spaniard,  is  to 
manage  the  steed,  to  wield  the  sword,  and  to  speak  the  truth." 

There  was  an  earnestness  and  gallantry  in  the  young  man's 
aspect,  manner,  and  voice,  as  he  thus  spoke,  which  afforded  the 
strongest  contrast  to  the  inscrutable  brow  and  artificial  soft- 
ness of  Calderon  ;  and  which,  indeed,  for  the  moment,  occa- 
sioned that  crafty  and  profound  adventurer  an  involuntary  feel- 
ing of  self-humiliation. 

"  But,"  continued  Fonseca,  "  let  this  pass  :  I  come  to  my 
story  and  my  request.  Do  you,  or  do  you  not  know,  that  I 
have  been  for  some  time  attached  to  Beatriz  Coello?" 

"  Beatriz,"  repeated  Calderon  abstractedly,  with  an  altered 
countenance,  "it  is  a  sweet  name — it  was  my  mother's !  " 

"  Your  mother's  !  I  thought  to  have  heard  her  name  was 
Mary  Sandalen  ?  " 

"  True — Mary  Beatriz  Sandalen,"  replied  Calderon  indiffer- 
ently. "But  proceed.  I  heard,  after  your  last  visit  to  Mad- 
rid, when,  owing  to  my  own  absence  in  Portugal,  I  was  not 
fortunate  enough  to  see  you,  that  you  had  offended  the  Duke 
by  desiring  an  alliance  unsuitable  to  your  birth,  Who,  then,  is 
this  B.  eatriz  CoeJlo  ?  " 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  13 

"  An  orphan  of  humble  origin  and  calling.  In  infancy  she 
was  left  to  the  care  of  a  woman  who,  I  believe,  had  been  her 
nurse ;  they  were  settled  in  Seville,  and  the  old  gouvernante's 
labors  in  embroidery  maintained  them  both  till  Beatriz  was 
fourteen.  At  that  time  the  poor  woman  was  disabled,  by  a 
stroke  of  palsy, from  continuing  her  labors;  and  Beatriz,  good 
child,  yearning  to  repay  the  obligations  she  had  received,  in 
her  turn  sought  to  maintain  her  protectress.  She  possessed 
the  gitt  of  a  voice  wonderful  for  its  sweetness.  This  gift  came 
to  the  knowledge  of  the  superintendent  of  the  theatre  at  Seville  : 
he  made  her  the  most  advantageous  proposals  to  enter  upon 
the  stage.  Beatriz,  innocent  child,  was  unaware  of  the  perils 
of  that  profession  :  she  accepted,  eagerly,  the  means  that  would 
give  comfort  to  the  declining  life  of  her  only  friend — she  became 
an  actress.  At  that  time  we  were  quartered  in  Seville,  to  keep 
guard  on  the  suspected  Moriscos." 

"  Ah,  the  hated  infidels ! "  muttered  Calderon  fiercely, 
through  his  teeth. 

"  I  saw  Beatriz,  and  loved  her  at  first  sight.  I  do  not 
say,"  added  Fonseca,  with  a  blush,  "  that  my  suit,  at  the  out- 
set, was  that  which  alone  was  worthy  of  her  ;  but  her  virtue 
soon  won  my  esteem,  as  well  as  love.  I  left  Seville  to  seek 
my  father,  and  obtain  his  consent  to  a  marriage  with  Beatriz. 
You  know  a  hidalgo's  prejudices — they  are  insuperable.  Mean- 
while, the  fame  of  the  beauty  and  voice  of  the  young  actress 
reached  Madrid,  and  hither  she  was  removed  from  Seville,  by 
royal  command.  To  Madrid,  then,  I  hastened,  on  the  pretence 
of  demanding  promotion.  You,  as  you  have  stated,  were  absent 
in  Portugal,  on  some  state  mission.  I  sought  the  Duke  de 
Lerma.  I  implored  him  to  give  me  some  post,  anywhere — I 
recked  not  beneath  what  sky,  in  the  vast  empire  of  Spain — in 
which,  removed  from  the  prejudices  of  birth  and  of  class,  and 
provided  with  other  means,  less  precarious  than  those  that 
depend  on  the  sword,  I  might  make  Beatriz  my  wife.  The 
polished  Duke  was  more  inexorable  than  the  stern  hidalgo.  I 
flew  to  Beatriz  ;  I  told  her  I  had  nothing  but  my  heart  and 
right  hand  to  offer.  She  wept,  and  she  refused  me." 

"  Because  you  were  not  rich  ? " 

"  Shame  on  you,  no  !  but  because  she  would  not  consent  to 
mar  my  fortunes,  and  banish  me  from  my  native  land.  The 
next  day  I  received  a  peremptory  order  to  rejoin  the  army,  and 
with  that  order  came  a  brevet  of  promotion.  Lover  though  I 
be,  I  am  a  Spaniard  :  to  have  disobeyed  the  order  would  have 
been  dishonor.  Hope  dawned  upon  me — I  might  rise,  I  might 


14  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

become  rich  !  We  exchanged  our  vows  of  fidelity.  I  returned 
to  the  camp.  We  corresponded.  At  last  her  letters  alarmed 
me.  Through  all  her  reserve,  I  saw  that  she  was  revolted  by 
her  profession,  and  terrified  at  the  persecutions  to  which  it 
exposed  her  :  the  old  woman  her  sole  guide  and  companion, 
was  dying  :  she  was  dejected  and  unhappy  :  she  despaired  of 
our  union  :  she  expressed  a  desire  for  the  refuge  of  the  cloister. 
At  last  came  this  letter,  bidding  me  farewell  forever.  Her 
relation  was  dead  :  and,  with  the  little  money  she  had  amassed, 
she  had  bought  her  entrance  into  the  convent  of  St.  Mary  of 
the  White  Sword.  Imagine  my  despair  !  I  obtained  leave  of 
absence — I  flew  to  Madrid.  Beatrix  i's  already  immured  in 
that  dreary  asylum  ;  she  has  entered  on  her  noviciate." 

"  Is  that  the  letter  you  refer  to?"  said  Calderon,  extending 
his  hand. 

Fonseca  gave  him  the  letter. 

Hard  and  cold  as  Calderon's  character  had  grown,  there  was 
something  in  the  tone  of  this  letter — its  pure  and  noble  senti- 
ments, its  innocence,  its  affection — that  touched  some  mystic 
chord  in  his  heart.  He  sighed  as  he  laid  it  down. 

"  You  are,  like  all  of  us,  Don  Martin,"  said  he,  with  a  bitter 
smile,  "  the  dupe  of  a  woman's  faith.  But  you  must  purchase 
experience  for  yourself,  and  if,  indeed,  you  ask  my  services  to 
procure  you  present  bliss  and  future  disappointment,  those 
services  are  yours.  It  will  not,  I  think,  be  difficult  to  interest 
the  Queen  in  your  favor  :  leave  me  this  letter,  it  is  one  to  touch 
the  heart  of  a  woman.  If  we  succeed  with  the  Queen,  who  is 
the  patroness  of  the  convent,  we  may  be  sure  to  obtain  an  order 
from  court  for  the  liberation  of  the  novice  :  the  next  step  is 
one  more  arduous.  It  is  not  enough  to  restore  Beatriz  to 
freedom — we  must  reconcile  your  family  to  the  marriage.  This 
cannot  be  done  while  she  is  not  noble  ;  but  letters  patent 
(here  Calderon  smiled)  could  ennoble  a  mushroom  itself — your 
humble  servant  is  an  example.  Such  letters  may  be  bought  or 
begged  ;  I  will  undertake  to  procure  them.  Your  father,  too, 
may  find  a  dowry  accompanying  the  title,  in  the  shape  of  a 
high  and  honorable  post  for  yourself.  You  deserve  much  ; 
you  are  beloved  in  the  army  ;  you  have  won  a  high  name  in 
the  world.  I  take  shame  on  myself  that  your  fortunes  have 
been  overlooked.  '  Out  of  sight  out  of  mind  ' ;  alas  it  is  a  true 
proverb.  I  confess  that,  when  I  beheld  you  in  the  anteroom, 
I  blushed  for  my  past  forgetfulness.  No  matter — I  will  repair 
my  fault.  Men  say  that  my  patronage  is  misapplied — I  will 
prove  the  contrary  by  your  promotion." 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  15 

"  Generous  Calderon  !  "  said  Fonseca  falteringly  ;  "  I  ever 
hated  the  judgments  of  the  vulgar.  They  calumniate  you  ;  it 
is  from  envy." 

"  No,"  said  Calderon  coldly ;  "  I  am  bad  enough,  but  I  am 
still  human.  Besides,  gratitude  is  my  policy.  I  have  always 
found  that  it  is  a  good  way  to  get  on  in  the  world,  to  serve 
those  who  serve  us." 

"But  the  Duke?" 

"  Fear  not ;  I  have  an  oil  that  will  smooth  all  the  billows  on 
that  surface.  As  for  the  letter,  I  say,  leave  it  with  me  ;  I  will 
show  it  to  the  Queen.  Let  me  see  you  again  to-morrow." 

CHAPTER  III. 

A  RIVAL. 

CALDERON'S  eyes  were  fixed  musingly  on  the  door  which 
closed  on  Fonseca's  martial  and  noble  form. 

"Great  contrasts  among  men  !"  said  he,  half-aloud.  "All 
the  classes  into  which  naturalists  ever  divided  the  animal 
world  contain  not  the  variety  that  exists  between  man  and 
man.  And  yet,  we  all  agree  in  one  object  of  our  being — all 
prey  on  each  other  !  Glory,  which  is  but  the  thirst  of  blood, 
makes  yon  soldier  the  tiger  of  his  kind  ;  other  passions  have 
made  me  the  serpent  :  both  fierce,  relentless,  unscrupulous — 
both  !  hero  and  courtier,  valor  and  craft !  Hem  !  I  will  serve 
this  young  man — he  has  served  me.  When  all  other  affection 
was  torn  from  me,  he,  then  a  boy,  smiled  on  me  and  bade  me 
love  him.  Why  has  he  been  so  long  forgotten  ?  He  is  not  of 
the  race  that  I  abhor ;  no  Moorish  blood  flows  in  his  veins  ; 
neither  is  he  of  the  great  and  powerful,  whom  I  dread  ;  nor 
of  the  crouching  and  the  servile,  whom  I  despise :  he  is  one 
whom  I  can' aid  without  a  blush." 

While  Calderon  thus  soliloquized,  the  arras  was  lifted  aside, 
and  a  cavalier,  on  whose  cheek  was  the  first  down  of  man- 
hood, entered  the  apartment. 

"So,  Roderigo,  alone!  Welcome  back  to  Madrid.  Nay, 
seat  thyself,  man — seat  thyself." 

Calderon  bowed  with  the  deepest  reverence ;  and,  placing 
a  large  fauteuil  before  the  stranger,  seated  himself  on  a  stool, 
at  a  little  distance. 

The  new-comer  was  of  sallow  complexion;  his  gorgeous  dress 
sparkled  with  prodigal  jewels.  Boy  as  he  was,  there  was  yet 
a  careless  loftiness,  a  haughty  ease  in  the  gesture — the  bend 
of  the  neck,  the  wave  of  the  hand,  which,  coupled  with  the  al- 


\6  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

most  servile  homage  of  the  arrogant  favorite,  would  have  con- 
vinced the  most  superficial  observer  that  he  was  born  of  the 
highest  rank.  A  second  glance  would  have  betrayed,  in  the 
full  Austrian  lip,  the  high,  but  narrow  forehead,  the  dark, 
voluptuous,  but  crafty  and  sinister  eye,  the  features  of  the  de- 
scendant of  Charles  V.  It  was  the  Infant  of  Spain  that  stood 
in  the  chamber  of  his  ambitious  minion. 

"  This  is  convenient,  this  private  entrance  into  thy  pene- 
tralia, Roderigo.  It  shelters  me  from  the  prying  eyes  of  Uzeda, 
who  ever  seeks  to  cozen  the  sire  by  spying  on  the  son.  We 
will  pay  him  off  one  of  these  days.  He  loves  you  no  less  than 
he  does  his  Prince." 

"I  bear  no  malice  to  him  for  that,  Your  Highness.  He 
covets  the  smiles  of  the  rising  sun,  and  rails  at  the  humble  ob- 
ject which,  he  thinks,  obstructs  the  beam." 

"He  might  be  easy  on  that  score  :  I  hate  the  man,  and  his 
cold  formalities.  He  is  ever  fancying  that  we  princes  are  in- 
tent on  the  affairs  of  state,  and  forgets  that  we  are  mortal,  and 
that  youth  is  the  age  for  the  bower,  not  the  council.  My 
precious  Calderon,  life  would  be  dull  without  thee  :  how  I  re- 
joice at  thy  return,  thou  best  inventor  of  pleasure  that  satiety 
ever  prayed  for  !  Nay,  blush  not :  some  men  despise  thee  for 
thy  talents  :  I  do  thee  honiage.  By  my  great  grandsire's  beard, 
it  will  be  a  merry  time  at  court  when  I  am  monarch,  and  thou 
minister. '  " 

Calderon  looked  earnestly  at  the  Prince,  but  his  scrutiny  did 
not  serve  to  dispel  a  certain  suspicion  of  the  royal  sincerity  that 
ever  and  anon  came  across  the  favorite's  most  sanguine  dreams. 
With  all  Philip's  gayety,  there  was  something  restrained  and 
latent  in  his  ambiguous  smile,  and  his  calm,  deep,  brilliant  eye. 
Calderon,  immeasurably  above  his  lord  in  genius,  was  scarcely, 
perhaps,  the  equal  of  that  beardless  boy  in  hypocrisy  and  craft, 
in  selfish  coldness,  in  matured  depravity. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  Prince,  "  I  pay  you  not  these  compli- 
ments without  an  object.  I  have  need  of  you — great  need  ; 
never  did  I  so  require  your  services  as  at  this  moment ;  never 
was  there  so  great  demand  on  your  invention,  your  courage, 
your  skill.  Know,  Calderon,  I  love  !  " 

"  My  Prince,"  said  the  Marquis,  smiling,  "it  is  certainly  not 
first  love.  How  often  has  Your  Highness —  " 

"  No,"  interrupted  the  Prince  hastily — "  no,  I  never  loved 
till  now.  We  never  can  love  what  we  can  easily  win  ;  but 
this,  Calderon,  this  heart  would  be  a  conquest.  Listen.  I  was 
at  the  convent  chapel  of  St.  Mary  of  the  White  Sword  yester- 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  If 

day  with  the  Queen.  Thou  knowest  that  the  abbess  once  was 
a  lady  of  the  chamber,  and  the  Queen  loves  her.  Both  of  us 
were  moved  and  astonished  by  the  voice  of  one  of  the  choir — 
it  was  that  of  a  novice.  After  the  ceremony,  the  Queen  made 
inquiries  touching  this  new  Santa  Cecilia ;  and  who  dost  thou 
think  she  is  ?  No  ;  thou  wilt  never  guess  ! — the  once  celebrated 
singer — the  beautiful,  the  inimitable  Beatriz  Coello  !  Ah  !  you 
may  well  look  surprised  ;  when  actresses  turn  nuns,  it  is  well- 
nigh  time  for  Calderon  and  Philip  to  turn  monks.  Now,  you 
must  know,  Roderigo,  that  I,  unworthy  though  I  be,  am  the  cause 
of  this  conversion.  There  is  a  certain  Martin  Fonseca,  a 
kinsman  of  Lerma's — thou  knowest  him  well.  I  learned,  some 
time  since,  from  the  Duke,  that  this  young  Orlando  was  most 
madly  enamoured  of  a  low-born  girl — nay,  desired  to  wed  her. 
The  Duke's  story  moved  my  curiosity.  I  found  that  it  was  the 
young  Beatriz  Coello,  whom  I  had  already  admired  on  the  stage. 
Ah,  Calderon,  she  blazed  and  set  during  thy  dull  mission  to 
Lisbon  !  I  sought  an  opportunity  to  visit  her.  I  was  as- 
tonished at  her  beauty,  that  seemed  more  dazzling  in  the 
chamber  than  on  the  stage.  I  pressed  my  suit — in  vain.  Cal- 
deron, hear  you  that  ? — in  vain  !  Why  wert  thou  not  by  ? 
Thy  arts  never  fail,  my  friend  !  She  was  living  with  an  old 
relation,  or  gouvernante.  The  old  relation  died  suddenly — I 
took  advantage  of  her  loneliness — I  entered  her  house  at  night. 
By  St.  Jago,  her  virtue  baffled  and  defeated  me.  The  next 
morning  she  was  gone  ;  nor  could  my  researches  discover  her, 
until,  at  the  convent  of  St.  Mary,  I  recognized  the  lost  actress 
in  the  young  novice.  She  has  fled  to  the  convent  to  be  true 
to  Fonseca  ;  she  must  fly  from  the  convent  to  bless  the  Prince! 
This  is  my  tale  :  I  want  thy  aid." 

"  Prince,"  said  Calderon  gravely,  "  thou  knowest  the  laws  of 
Spain,  the  rigor  of  the  Church.  I  dare  not — " 

"  Pshaw  !  No  scruples — my  rank  will  bear  thee  harmless. 
Nay,  look  not  so  demure  ;  why,  even  thou,  I  see,  hast  thy 
Armida.  This  billet  in  a  female  hand — Heaven  and  earth  ! 
Calderon  !  What  name  is  this  ?  Beatriz  Coello  !  Darestthott 
have  crossed  my  path  !  Speak,  sir ! — speak  !  " 

"  Your  Highness,"  said  Calderon,  with  a  mixture  of  respect 
and  dignity  in  his  manner — "Your  Highness,  hear  me.  My 
first  benefactor,  my  beloved  pupil,  my  earliest  patron,  was  the 
same  Don  Martin  Fonseca  who  seeks  this  girl  with  an  honest 
love.  This  morning  he  has  visited  me,  to  implore  my  interces- 
sion on  his  behalf.  Oh,  Prince  !  turn  not  away  :  thou  knowest 
not  half  his  merit.  Thou  knowest  not  the  value  of  such  sub- 


l6  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

most  servile  homage  of  the  arrogant  favorite,  would  have  con- 
vinced the  most  superficial  observer  that  he  was  born  of  the 
highest  rank.  A  second  glance  would  have  betrayed,  in  the 
full  Austrian  lip,  the  high,  but  narrow  forehead,  the  dark, 
voluptuous,  but  crafty  and  sinister  eye,  the  features  of  the  de- 
scendant of  Charles  V.  It  was  the  Infant  of  Spain  that  stood 
in  the  chamber  of  his  ambitious  minion. 

"  This  is  convenient,  this  private  entrance  into  thy  pene- 
tralia, Roderigo.  It  shelters  me  from  the  prying  eyes  of  Uzeda, 
who  ever  seeks  to  cozen  the  sire  by  spying  on  the  son.  Wr 
will  pay  him  off  one  of  these  days.  He  loves  you  no  less  than 
he  does  his  Prince." 

"I  bear  no  malice  to  him  for  that,  Your  Highness.  He 
covets  the  smiles  of  the  rising  sun,  and  rails  at  the  humble  ob- 
ject which,  he  thinks,  obstructs  the  beam." 

"He  might  be  easy  on  that  score  :  I  hate  the  man,  and  his 
cold  formalities.  He  is  ever  fancying  that  we  princes  are  in- 
tent on  the  affairs  of  state,  and  forgets  that  we  are  mortal,  and 
that  youth  is  the  age  for  the  bower,  not  the  council.  My 
precious  Calderon,  life  would  be  dull  without  thee  :  how  I  re- 
joice at  thy  return,  thou  best  inventor  of  pleasure  that  satiety 
ever  prayed  for  !  Nay,  blush  not :  some  men  despise  thee  for 
thy  talents  :  I  do  thee  homage.  By  my  great  grandsire's  beard, 
it  will  be  a  merry  time  at  court  when  I  am  monarch,  and  thou 
minister  '  " 

Calderon  looked  earnestly  at  the  Prince,  but  his  scrutiny  did 
not  serve  to  dispel  a  certain  suspicion  of  the  royal  sincerity  that 
ever  and  anon  came  across  the  favorite's  most  sanguine  dreams. 
With  all  Philip's  gayety,  there  was  something  restrained  and 
latent  in  his  ambiguous  smile,  and  his  calm,  deep,  brilliant  eye. 
Calderon,  immeasurably  above  his  lord  in  genius,  was  scarcely, 
perhaps,  the  equal  of  that  beardless  boy  in  hypocrisy  and  craft, 
in  selfish  coldness,  in  matured  depravity. 

"Well,"  resumed  the  Prince,  "I  pay  you  not  these  compli- 
ments without  an  object.  I  have  need  of  you — great  need  ; 
never  did  I  so  require  your  services  as  at  this  moment ;  never 
was  there  so  great  demand  on  your  invention,  your  courage, 
your  skill.  Know,  Calderon,  I  love  !  " 

"  My  Prince,"  said  the  Marquis,  smiling,  "  it  is  certainly  not 
first  love.  How  often  has  Your  Highness —  " 

"  No,"  interrupted  the  Prince  hastily — "  no,  I  never  loved 
till  now.  We  never  can  love  what  we  can  easily  win  ;  but 
this,  Calderon,  this  heart  would  be  a  conquest.  Listen.  I  was 
at  the  convent  chapel  of  St.  Mary  of  the  White  Sword  yester- 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  17 

day  with  the  Queen.  Thou  knowest  that  the  abbess  once  was 
a  lady  of  the  chamber,  and  the  Queen  loves  her.  Both  of  us 
were  moved  and  astonished  by  the  voice  of  one  of  the  choir — 
it  was  that  of  a  novice.  After  the  ceremony,  the  Queen  made 
inquiries  touching  this  new  Santa  Cecilia ;  and  who  dost  thou 
think  she  is  ?  No  ;  thou  wilt  never  guess  ! — the  once  celebrated 
singer — the  beautiful,  the  inimitable  Beatriz  Coello  !  Ah  !  you 
may  well  look  surprised  ;  when  actresses  turn  nuns,  it  is  well- 
nigh  time  for  Calderon  and  Philip  to  turn  monks.  Now,  you 
must  know,  Roderigo,  that  I,  unworthy  though  I  be,  am  the  cause 
of  this  conversion.  There  is  a  certain  Martin  Fonseca,  a 
kinsman  of  Lerma's — thou  knowest  him  well.  I  learned,  some 
time  since,  from  the  Duke,  that  this  young  Orlando  was  most 
madly  enamoured  of  a  low-born  girl — nay,  desired  to  wed  her. 
The  Duke's  story  moved  my  curiosity.  I  found  that  it  was  the 
young  Beatriz  Coello,  whom  I  had  already  admired  on  the  stage. 
Ah,  Calderon,  she  blazed  and  set  during  thy  dull  mission  to 
Lisbon  !  I  sought  an  opportunity  to  visit  her.  I  was  as- 
tonished at  her  beauty,  that  seemed  more  dazzling  in  the 
chamber  than  on  the  stage.  I  pressed  my  suit — in  vain.  Cal- 
deron, hear  you  that  ? — in  vain  !  Why  wert  thou  not  by  ? 
Thy  arts  never  fail,  my  friend  !  She  was  living  with  an  old 
relation,  or  gouvernante.  The  old  relation  died  suddenly — I 
took  advantage  of  her  loneliness — I  entered  her  house  at  night. 
By  St.  Jago,  her  virtue  baffled  and  defeated  me.  The  next 
morning  she  was  gone  ;  nor  could  my  researches  discover  her, 
until,  at  the  convent  of  St.  Mary,  I  recognized  the  lost  actress 
in  the  young  novice.  She  has  fled  to  the  convent  to  be  true 
to  Fonseca  ;  she  must  fly  from  the  convent  to  bless  the  Prince! 
This  is  my  tale  :  I  want  thy  aid." 

"  Prince,"  said  Calderon  gravely,  "thou  knowest  the  laws  of 
Spain,  the  rigor  of  the  Church.  I  dare  not — " 

"  Pshaw  !  No  scruples — my  rank  will  bear  thee  harmless. 
Nay,  look  not  so  demure  ;  why,  even  thou,  I  see,  hast  thy 
Armida.  This  billet  in  a  female  hand — Heaven  and  earth  ! 
Calderon  !  What  name  is  this  ?  Beatriz  Coello  !  Darestthou 
have  crossed  my  path  !  Speak,  sir ! — speak  !  " 

"  Your  Highness,"  said  Calderon,  with  a  mixture  of  respect 
and  dignity  in  his  manner — "Your  Highness,  hear  me.  My 
first  benefactor,  my  beloved  pupil,  my  earliest  patron,  was  the 
same  Don  Martin  Fonseca  who  seeks  this  girl  with  an  honest 
love.  This  morning  he  has  visited  me,  to  implore  my  interces- 
sion on  his  behalf.  Oh,  Prince  !  turn  not  away  :  thou  knowest 
not  half  his  merit.  Thou  knowest  not  the  value  of  such  sub- 


20  CALUERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

the  world  ever  seek  to  avail  their  cause.  I  knew  thee  brave, 
crafty,  aspiring,  unscrupulous.  I  knew  that  thou  wouldst  not 
shrink  at  the  means  that  could  secure  to  thee  a  noble  end. 
Yea,  when,  years  ago,  in  the  valley  of  the  Xenil,  I  saw  thee 
bathe  thy  hands  in  the  blood  of  thy  foe,  and  heard  thy  laugh 
of  exulting  scorn  ;  when  I,  alone  master  of  thy  secret,  beheld 
thee  afterwards  flying  from  thy  home,  stained  with  a  second 
murder,  but  still  calm,  stern,  and  lord  of  thine  own  reason,  my 
knowledge  of  mankind  told  me  :  'Of  such  men  are  high  con- 
verts and  mighty  instruments  made  '  !  " 

The  priest  paused  ;  for  Calderon  heard  him  not.  His  cheek 
was  livid,  his  eyes  closed,  his  chest  heaved  wildly. 

"  Horrible  remembrance  !  "  he  muttered  ;  "  fatal  love — 
dread  revenge  !  Inez,  Inez,  what  hast  thou  to  answer  for  !  " 

"  Be  soothed,  my  son  ;  I  meant  not  to  tear  the  bandage  from 
thy  wounds."  . 

"  Who  speaks  ?  "  cried  Calderon,  starting.  "  Ha,  priest ! 
priest  !  I  thought  I  heard  the  Dead.  Take  on,  talk  on  :  talk 
of  the  world— the  Inquisition — thy  plots — the  torture — the 
rack  !  Talk  of  aught  that  will  lead  me  back  from  the  past." 

"  No  ;  let  me  for  a  moment  lead  thee  thither,  in  order  to 
portray  the  future  that  awaits  thee.  When,  at  night,  I  found 
thee,  the  blood-stained  fugitive,  cowering  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  forest,  dost  thou  remember  that  I  laid  my  hand  upon 
thine  arm,  and  said  to  thee, '  Thy  life  is  in  my  power '  ?  From 
that  hour,  thy  disdain  of  my  threats,  of  myself,  of  thine  own 
life — all  made  me  view  thee  as  one  born  to  advance  our  immortal 
cause.  I  led  thee  to  safety  far  away;  I  won  thy  friendship  and 
thy  confidence.  Thou  becamest  one  of  us — one  of  the  great 
Order  of  Jesus.  Subsequently,  I  placed  thee  as  the  tutor  to 
young  Fonseca,  then  heir  to  great  fortunes.  The  second  mar- 
riage of  his  uncle,  and  the  heir  that  by  that  marriage  interposed 
between  him  and  the  honor  of  his  house,  rendered  the  proba- 
ble alliance  of  the  youth  profitless  to  us.  But  thou  hadst  pro- 
cured his  friendship.  He  presented  thee  to  the  Duke  of  Lerma. 
I  was  just  then  appointed  confessor  to  the  King  ;  I  found  that 
years  had  ripened  thy  genius,  and  memory  had  blunted  in  thee 
all  the  affections  of  the  flesh.  Above  all,  hating,  as  thou  didst, 
the  very  name  of  the  Moor,  thou  wert  the  man  of  men  to  aid 
in  our  great  design  of  expelling  the  accursed  race  from  the 
land  of  Spain.  Enough — I  served  thee,  and  thou  didst  repay 
us.  Thou  hast  washed  out  thy  crime  in  the  blood  of  the  infi- 
del— thou  art  safe  from  detection.  In  Roderigo  Calderon, 
Marquis  de  Siete  Iglesias,  who  will  suspect  the  Roderigo 


CALDERON,    THE     COURTIER.  2f 

Nunez — the  murderous  student  of  Salamanca  ?  Our  device  of 
the  false  father  stifled  even  curiosity.  Thou  mayest  wake  to 
the  future,  nor  tremble  at  one  shadow  in  the  past.  The  brightest 
hopes  are  before  us  both  ;  but  to  realize  them,  we  must  con- 
tinue the  same  path.  We  must  never  halt  at  an  obstacle  in 
our  way.  We  must  hold  that  to  be  no  crime  which  advances 
our  common  objects.  Mesh  upon  mesh  we  must  entangle  the 
future  monarch  in  our  web  :  thou,  by  the  nets  of  pleasure  ;  I, 
by  those  of  superstition.  The  day  that  sees  Philip  IV.  upon 
the  throne  must  be  a  day  of  jubilee  for  the  Brotherhood  and 
the  Inquisition.  When  thou  art  prime  minister,  and  I  grand 
inquisitor — that  time  must  come — we  shall  have  the  power  to 
extend  the  sway  of  the  sect  of  Loyola  to  the  ends  of  the  Chris- 
tian world.  The  Inquisition  itself  our  tool !  Posterity  shall 
regard  us  as  the  apostles  of  intellectual  faith.  And  thinkest 
thou  that,  for  the  attainment  of  these  great  ends,  we  can  have 
the  tender  scruples  of  common  men  ?  Perish  a  thousand  Fon- 
secas — ten  thousand  novices,  ere  thou  lose,  by  the  strength 
of  a  hair,  thy  hold  over  the  senses  and  soul  of  the  licentious 
Philip  !  At  whatever  hazard,  save  thy  power  ;  for  with  it  are 
bound,  as  mariners  to  a  plank,  the  hopes  of  those  who  make 
the  mind  a  sceptre." 

"  Thy  enthusiasm  blinds  and  misleads  thee,  Aliaga,"  said 
Calderon  coldly,  "  For  me,  I  tell  thee  now,  as  I  have  told  thee 
before,  that  I  care  not  a  rush  for  thy  grand  objects.  Let  man- 
kind serve  itself — I  look  to  myself  alone.  But  fear  not  my 
faith  ;  my  interests  and  my  very  life  are  identified  with  thee 
and  thy  fellow-fanatics.  If  I  desert  thee,  thou  art  too  deep  in 
my  secrets  not  to  undo  me  ;  and  were  I  to  slay  thee,  in  order 
to  silence  thy  testimony,  I  know  enough  of  thy  fraternity  to 
know  that  I  should  but  raise  up  a  multitude  of  avengers.  As 
for  this  matter,  you  give  me  wise,  if  not  pious,  counsel.  I  will 
consider  well  of  it.  Adieu  !  The  hour  summons  me  to  attend 
the  King." 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE    TRUE    FATA  MORGANA. 

IN  the  royal  chamber,  before  a  table  covered  with  papers, 
sate  the  King  and  his  secretary.  Grave,  sullen,  and  taciturn, 
there  was  little  in  the  habitual  manner  of  Philip  III.  that  could 
betray  to  the  most  experienced  courtier  the  outward  symptoms 
of  favor  or  caprice.  Education  had  fitted  him  for  the  cloister, 
but  the  necessities  of  despotism  had  added  acute  cunning  to 


42  CAI.DERON,    THE    COUfcTtER. 

slavish  superstition.  The  business  for  which  Calderon  had 
been  summoned  was  despatched,  with  a  silence  broken  but  by 
monosyllables  from  the  King,  and  brief  explanations  from  the 
secretary  ;  and  Philip,  rising,  gave  the  signal  for  Calderon  to 
retire.  It  was  then  that  the  King,  turning  a  dull,  but  steadfast 
eye,  upon  the  Marquis,  said,  with  a  kind  of  effort,  as  if  speech 
were  painful  to  him  : 

"  The  Prince  left  me  but  a  minute  before  your  entrance — 
have  you  seen  him  since  your  return  ?  " 

"  Your  Majesty,  yes.  He  honored  me  this  morning  with 
his  presence." 

"  On  state  affairs  ?" 

"Your  Majesty  knows,  I  trust,  that  your  servant  treats  of 
state  affairs  only  with  your  august  self,  or  your  appointed 
ministers." 

"The  Prince  has  favored  you,  Don  Roderigo." 

"Your  Majesty  commanded  me  to  seek  that  favor." 

"  It  is  true.  Happy  the  monarch  whose  faithful  servant  is 
the  confidant  of  the  heir  to  his  crown  !  " 

"Could  the  Prince  harbor  one  thought  displeasing  to  your 
Majesty,  I  think  I  could  detect,  and  quell  it  at  its  birth.  But 
your  Majesty  is  blessed  in  a  grateful  son." 

"I  believe  it.  His  love  of  pleasure  decoys  him  from  ambi- 
tion— so  it  should  be.  I  am  not  an  austere  parent.  Keep  his 
favor,  Don  Roderigo  ;  it  pleases  me.  Hast  thou  offended  him 
in  aught  ? " 

"  I  trust  I  have  not  incurred  so  great  a  misfortune." 

"  He  spoke  not  of  thee  with  his  usual  praises — I  noticed  it. 
I  tell  thee  this,  that  thou  mayest  rectify  what  is  wrong.  Thou 
canst  not  serve  me  more  than  by  guarding  him  from  all  friend- 
ships save  with  those  whose  affection  to  myself  I  can  trust.  I 
have  said  enough." 

"Such  has  ever  been  my  object.  But  I  have  not  the  youth 
of  the  Prince,  and  men  speak  ill  of  me,  that,  in  order  to  gain 
his  confidence,  I  share  in  his  pursuits." 

"It  matters  not  what  they  say  of  thee.  Faithful  ministers 
are  rarely  eulogized  by  the  populace  or  the  court.  Thou 
knowest  my  mind  :  I  repeat,  lose  not  the  Prince's  favor." 

Calderon  bowed  low,  and  withdrew.  As  he  passed  through 
the  apartments  of  the  palace,  he  crossed  a  gallery,  in  which  he 
perceived,  stationed  by  a  window,  the  young  Prince  and  his 
own  arch  foe,  the  Duke  d'Uzeda.  At  the  same  instant,  from 
an  opposite  door,  entered  the  Cardinal  Duke  de  Lerma  ;  and 
the  same  unwelcome  conjunction  of  hostile  planets  smote  the 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  23 

eyes  of  that  intriguing  minister.  Precisely  because  Uzeda  was 
the  Duke's  son,  was  he  the  man  in  the  world  whom  the  Duke 
most  dreaded  and  suspected  ? 

Whoever  is  acquainted  with  the  Spanish  comedy  will  not 
fail  to  have  remarked  the  prodigality  of  intrigue  and  counter- 
intrigue  upon  which  its  interest  is  made  to  depend.  In  this, 
the  Spanish  comedy  was  the  faithful  mirror  of  the  Spanish  life, 
especially  in  the  circles  of  a  court.  Men  lived  in  a  perfect 
labyrinth  of  plot  and  counter-plot.  The  spirit  of  finesse, 
manoeuvre,  subtlety,  and  double-dealing  pervaded  every  fam- 
ily. Not  a  house  that  was  not  divided  against  itself ! 

As  Lerma  turned  his  eyes  from  the  unwelcome  spectacle  of 
such  sudden  familiarity  between  Uzeda  and  the  heir-apparent — 
a  familiarity  which  it  had  been  his  chief  care  to  guard  against — 
his  glance  fell  on  Calderon.  He  beckoned  to  him  in  silence, 
and  retired,  unobserved  by  the  two  confabulators,  through  the 
same  door  by  which  he  had  entered.  Calderon  took  the  hint, 
and  followed  him.  The  Duke  entered  a  small  room,  and  care- 
fully closed  the  door. 

"  How  is  this,  Calderon  ?"  he  asked,  but  in  a  timid  tone,  for 
the  weak  old  man  stood  in  awe  of  his  favorite.  "  Whence  this 
new  and  most  ill-boding  league  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,  your  Eminence  ;  remember  that  I  am  but  just 
returned  to  Madrid;  it  amazes  me  no  less  than  it  does  your 
Eminence." 

"  Learn  the  cause  of  it,  my  good  Calderon  :  the  Prince  ever 
professed  to  hate  Uzeda.  Restore  him  to  those  feelings  :  thou 
art  all  in  all  with  his  Highness  !  If  Uzeda  once  gain  his  ear, 
thou  art  lost." 

"  Not  so,"  cried  Calderon  proudly.  "  My  service  is  to  the 
King  ;  I  have  a  right  to  his  royal  protection,  for  I  have  a  claim 
on  his  royal  gratitude." 

"  Do  not  deceive  thyself,"  said  the  Duke,  in  a  whisper. 
"  The  King  cannot  live  long  :  I  have  it  from  the  best  author- 
ity, his  physician  ;  nor  is  this  all — a  formidable  conspiracy 
against  thee  exists  at  court.  But  for  myself  and  the  King's 
confessor,  Philip  would  consent  to  thy  ruin.  The  strong  hold 
thou  hast  over  him  is  in  thy  influence  with  the  Infant — an 
influence  which  he  knows  to  be  exerted  on  behalf  of  his  own 
fearful  and  jealous  policy  ;  that  influence  gone,  neither  I  nor 
Aliaga  could  suffice  to  protect  thee.  Enough  !  Shut  every 
access  to  Philip's  heart  against  Uzeda." 

Calderon  bowed  in  silence,  and  the  Duke  hastened  to  the 
royal  cabinet. 


24  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

"What  a  fool  was  I  to  think  that  I  could  still  wear  a  con- 
science !  "  muttered  Calderon,  with  a  sneering  lip  ;  "  but, 
Uzeda,  I  will  baffle  thee  yet." 

The  next  morning  the  Marquis  de  Siete  Iglesias  presented 
himself  at  the  levee  of  the  Prince  of  Spain. 

Around  the  favorite,  as  his  proud  stature  towered  above  the 
rest,  flocked  the  obsequious  grandees.  The  haughty  smile  was 
yet  on  his  lip  when  the  door  opened,  and  the  Prince  entered. 
The  crowd,  in  parting  suddenly,  left  Calderon  immediately  in 
front  of  Philip  ;  who,  after  gazing  on  him  sternly  for  a  moment, 
turned  away,  with  marked  discourtesy,  from  the  favorite's  pro- 
found reverence,  and  began  a  low  and  smiling  conversation 
with  Gonsalez  de  Leon,  one  of  Calderon's  open  foes. 

The  crowd  exchanged  looks  of  delight  and  surprise  ;  and 
each  of  the  nobles,  before  so  wooing  in  their  civilities  to  the 
minister,  edged  cautiously  away. 

His  mortification  had  but  begun.  Presently  Uzeda,  hitherto 
almost  a  stranger  to  those  apartments,  appeared  ;  the  Prince 
hastened  to  him,  and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  Duke  was  seen  fol- 
lowing the  Prince  into  his  private  chamber.  The  sun  of  Cal- 
deron's favor  seemed  set.  So  thought  the  courtiers  :  not  so 
the  haughty  favorite.  There  was  even  a  smile  of  triumph  on 
his  lip,  a  sanguine  flush  upon  his  pale  cheek,  as  he  turned 
unheeding  from  the  throng,  and  then,  entering  his  carriage, 
regained  his  home. 

He  had  scarcely  re-entered  his  cabinet,  ere,  faithful  to  his 
appointment,  Fonseca  was  announced. 

"  What  tidings,  my  best  of  friends  ? "  exclaimed  the  soldier. 

Calderon  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  My  dear  pupil,"  said  he  in  accents  of  well-affected  sympa- 
thy, "there  is  no  hope  for  thee.  Forget  this  vain  dream — 
return  to  the  army.  I  can  promise  thee  promotion,  rank,  hon- 
ors ;  but  the  hand  of  Beatriz  is  beyond  my  power." 

"How?"  said  Fonseca,  turning  pale  and  sinking  into  a  seat. 
"How  is  this?  Why  so  sudden  a  change  ?  Has  the  Queen — " 

"  I  have  not  seen  her  Majesty  ;  but  the  King  is  resolved 
upon  this  matter:  so  are  the  Inquisition.  The  Church  com- 
plains of  recent  and  numerous  examples  of  unholy  and  impoli- 
tic relaxation  of  her  dread  power.  The  court  dare  not  inter- 
fere. The  novice  must  be  left  to  her  own  choice." 

"  And  is  there  no  hope  ?  " 

"  None  !     Return  to  the  excitement  of  thy  brave  career." 

"  Never  !  "  cried  Fonseca  with  great  vehemence.  "  If,  in 
requital  of  all  my  services — of  life  risked,  blood  spilt,  I  cannot 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  25 

obtain  a  boon  so  easy  to  accord  me,  I  renounce  a  service  in 
which  even  fame  has  lost  its  charm.  And  hark  you,  Calderon, 
I  tell  you  that  I  will  not  forego  this  pursuit.  So  fair,  so  inno- 
cent a  victim  shall  not  be  condemned  to  that  living  tomb. 
Through  the  walls  of  the  nunnery,  through  the  spies  of  the 
Inquisition,  love  will  find  out  its  way  ;  and  in  some  distant 
land  I  will  yet  unite  happiness  and  honor.  I  fear  not  exile ;  I 
fear  not  reverse :  I  no  longer  fear  poverty  itself.  All  lands, 
where  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  is  not  unknown,  can  afford 
career  to  the  soldier,  who  asks  from  Heaven  no  other  boon  but 
his  mistress  and  his  sword." 

"You  will  seek  to  abstract  Beatrix,  then  ?"  said  Calderon 
calmly  and  musingly.  "Yes — it  may  be  your  best  course,  if 
you  take  the  requisite  precautions.  But,  can  you  see  her  ;  can 
you  concert  with  her?" 

"  I  think  so.  I  trust  I  have  already  paved  the  way  to  an 
interview.  Yesterday,  after  I  quitted  thee,  I  sought  the  con- 
vent ;  and,  as  the  chapel  is  one  of  the  public  sights  of  the  city, 
I  made  my  curiosity  my  excuse.  Happily  I  recognized  in  the 
porter  of  the  convent  an  old  servitor  of  my  father's  ;  he  had 
known  me  from  a  child  ;  he  dislikes  his  calling — he  will  consent 
to  accompany  our  flight,  to  share  our  fortunes  :  he  has  prom- 
ised to  convey  a  letter  from  me  to  Beatriz,  and  to  transmit  to 
me  her  answer." 

"The  stars  smile  on  thee,  Don  Martin.  When  thou  hast 
learned  more,  consult  with  me  again.  Now,  I  see  a  way  to 
assist  thee." 

CHAPTER  VI. 

WEB    UPON    WEB. 

THE  next  day,  to  the  discomfiture  of  the  courtiers,  Calderon 
and  the  Infant  of  Spain  were  seen  together,  publicly,  on  the 
parade  ;  and  the  secretary  made  one  of  the  favored  few  who 
attended  the  Prince  at  the  theatre.  His  favor  was  greater,  his 
power  more  dazzling,  than  ever  it  had  been  known  before.  No 
cause  for  the  breach  and  reconciliation  being  known,  some 
attributed  it  to  caprice,  others  to  the  wily  design  of  the  astute 
Calderon  for  the  humiliation  of  Uzeda,  who  seemed  only  to 
have  been  admitted  to  one  smile  from  the  rising  sun.  in  order 
more  signally  to  be  rcconsigned  to  the  shade. 

Meanwhile,  Fonseca  prospered  almost  beyond  his  hopes. 
Young,  ardent,  sanguine,  the  poor  novice  had  fled  from  her 
quiet  home,  and  the  indulgence  of  her  free  thoughts,  to  the 


26  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

chill  solitude  of  the  cloister,  little  dreaming  of  the  extent  of 
the  change.  With  a  heart  that  overflowed  with  the  warm 
thoughts  of  love  and  youth,  the  ghostlike  shapes  that  flitted 
round  her  ;  the  icy  forms,  the  rigid  ceremonials  of  that  life, 
which  is  but  the  mimicry  of  death,  appalled  and  shocked  her. 
That  she  had  preserved  against  a  royal  and  most  perilous,  because 
unscrupulous,  suitor,  her  fidelity  to  the  absent  Fonseca,  was 
her  sole  consolation. 

Another  circumstance  had  combined  with  the  loss  of  her 
protectress,  and  the  absence  of  Don  Martin,  to  sadden  her 
heart,  and  dispose  her  to  the  cloister.  On  the  deathbed  of  the 
old  woman,  who  had  been  to  her  as  a  mother,  she  had  learned 
a  secret  hitherto  concealed  from  her  tender  youth.  Dark  and 
tragic  were  the  influences  of  the  star  which  had  shone  upon 
her  birth  ;  gloomy  the  heritage  of  memories  associated  with 
her  parentage.  A  letter,  of  which  she  now  became  the  guar- 
dian and  treasurer — a  letter,  in  her  mother's  hand — woke  tears 
more  deep  and  bitter  than  she  had  ever  shed  for -herself.  In 
that  letter  she  read  the  strength  and  the  fidelity,  the  sorrow 
and  the  gloom,  of  woman's  love  ;  and  a  dreary  foreboding  told 
her  that  the  shadow  of  the  mother's  fate  was  cast  over  the 
child's.  Such  were  the  thoughts  that  had  made  the  cloister 
welcome,  till  the  desolation  of  the  shelter  was  tried  and  known. 
But  when,  through  the  agency  of  the  porter,  Fonseca's  letter 
reached  her,  all  other  feelings  gave  way  to  the  burst  of  natural 
and  passionate  emotion.  The  absent  had  returned,  again  wooed, 
was  still  faithful.  The  awful  vow  was  not  spoken — she  might 
yet  be  his.  She  answered  ;  she  chided  ;  she  spoke  of  doubt, 
of  peril,  of  fear  for  him,  of  maiden  shame  ;  but  her  affection 
colored  every  word,  and  the  letter  was  full  of  hope.  The  cor- 
respondence continued  ;  the  energetic  remonstrances  of  Fon- 
seca, the  pure  and  fervent  attachment  of  the  novice,  led  more 
and  more  rapidly  and  surely  to  the  inevitable  result.  Beatriz 
yielded  to  the  prayer  of  her  lover  ;  she  consented  to  the  scheme 
of  escape  and  flight  that  he  proposed. 

Late  at  evening  Fonseca  sought  Calderon.  The  Marquis 
was  in  the  gardens  of  his  splendid  mansion. 

The  moonlight  streamed  over  many  a  row  of  orange-trees 
and  pomegranates — many  a  white  and  richly  sculptured  vase, 
on  its  marble  pedestal — many  a  fountain,  that  scattered  its  low 
music  round  the  breathless  air.  Upon  a  terrace  that  com- 
manded a  stately  view  of  the  spires  and  palaces  of  Madrid, 
stood  Calderon  alone  ;  beside  him,  one  solitary  and  gigantic 
aloe  cast  its  deep  gloom  of  shade  ;  and  his  motionless  attitude, 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  2? 

his  folded  arms,  his  face  partially  lifted  to  the  starlit  heav- 
ens, bespoke  the  earnestness  and  concentration  of  his 
thoughts. 

"  Why  does  this  shudder  come  over  me  ?  "  said  he,  half- 
aloud.  "  It  was  thus  in  that  dismal  hour  which  preceded  the 
knowledge  of  my  shame — the  deed  of  a  dark  revenge — the 
revolution  of  my  eventful  and  wondrous  life  !  Ah  !  how 
happy  was  I  once  !  A  contented  and  tranquil  student  ;  a  be- 
liever in  those  eyes  that  were  to  me  as  the  stars  to  the  astrolo- 
ger. But  the  golden  age  passed  into  that  of  iron.  And  now," 
added  Calderon,  with  a  self-mocking  sneer,  "comes  the  era 
which  the  poets  have  not  chronicled  ;  for  fraud,  and  hypocrisy, 
and  vice,  know  no  poets  !  " 

The  quick  step  of  Fonseca  interrupted  the  courtier's  revery. 
He  turned,  knit  his  brow,  and  sighed  heavily,  as  if  nerving 
himself  to  some  effort ;  but  his  brow  was  smooth,  and  his  as- 
pect cheerful,  ere  Fonseca  reached  his  side. 

"  Give  me  joy — give  me  joy,  dear  Calderon  !  She  has  con- 
sented. Now  then,  your  promised  aid." 

"  You  can  depend  upon  the  fidelity  of  your  friendly  porter  ?  " 

"With  my  life." 

"  A  master  key  to  the  back-door  of  the  chapel  has  been 
made  ?" 

"  See,  I  have  it." 

"  And  Beatriz  can  contrive  to  secrete  herself  in  the  confes- 
sional at  the  hour  of  the  night  prayers  ?  " 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  her  doing  so  with  safety.  The  num- 
ber of  the  novices  is  so  great  that  one  of  them  cannot  well  be 
missed." 

"So  much,  then,  for  your  part  of  the  enterprise.  Now  for 
mine.  You  know  that  solitary  house  in  the  suburbs,  on  the 
high  road  to  Fuencarral,  which  I  pointed  out  to  you  yester- 
day ?  Well,  the  owner  is  a  creature  of  mine.  There,  horses 
shall  be  in  waiting  ;  there,  disguises  shall  be  prepared.  Beatriz 
must  necessarily  divest  herself  of  the  professional  dress  ;  you 
had  better  choose  meaner  garments  for  yourself.  Drop  those 
hidalgo  titles  of  which  your  father  is  so  proud,  and  pass  off 
yourself  and  the  novice  as  a  notary  and  his  wife,  about  to  visit 
France  on  a  lawsuit  of  inheritance.  One  of  my  secretaries 
shall  provide  you  with  a  pass.  Meanwhile,  to-morrow,  I  shall 
be  the  first  officially  to  hear  of  the  flight  of  the  novice,  and  I 
will  set  the  pursuers  on  a  wrong  scent.  Have  I  not  arranged 
all  things  properly,  my  Fonseca?" 

"  You  are  our  guardian  nngel !  "  cried  Don  Martin  fervent- 


28  CALDERON,  THE  COURTIER. 

ly.  "  The  prayers  of  Beatrix  will  be  registered  in  your  behalf 
above — prayers  that  will  reach  the  Great  Throne  as  easily  from 
the  open  valleys  of  France  as  in  the  gloomy  cloisters  of  Ma- 
drid. At  midnight  to-morrow,  then,  we  seek  the  house  you 
have  described  to  us." 

"  Ay,  at  midnight,  all  shall  be  prepared." 

With  a  light  step  and  exulting  heart  Fonseca  turned  from 
the  palace  of  Calderon.  Naturally  sanguine  and  high-spirited, 
visions  of  hope  and  joy  floated  before  his  eyes,  and  the  future 
seemed  to  him  a  land  owning  but  the  twin  deities  of  Glory  and 
Love. 

He  had  reached  about  the  centre  of  the  street  in  which 
Calderon's  abode  was  placed,  when  six  men,  who  for  some 
moments  had  been  watching  him  from  a  little  distance,  ap- 
proached. 

"  I  believe,"  said  the  one  who  appeared  the  chief  of  the 
band,  "  that  I  have  the  honor  to  address  Senor  Don  Martin 
Fonseca  ? " 

"  Such  is  my  name." 

"  In  the  name  of  the  King  we  arrest  you.     Follow  us." 

"  Arrest  !     On  what  plea  ?     What  is  my  offence  ?  " 

"  It  is  stated  on  this  writ,  signed  by  His  Eminence  the  Car- 
dinal Duke  de  Lerma.  You  are  charged  with  the  crime  of 
desertion." 

"  Thou  liest,  knave !  I  had  the  general's  free  permission  to 
quit  the  camp." 

"  We  have  said  all — follow  !  " 

Fonseca,  naturally  of  the  most  impetuous  and  passionate 
character,  was  not,  in  that  moment,  in  a  mood  to  calculate 
coldly  all  the  consequences  of  resistance.  Arrest — imprison- 
ment— on  the  eve  before  that  which  was  to  see  him  the  deliverer 
of  Beatrix,  constituted  a  sentence  of  such  despair,  that  all  other 
considerations  vanished  before  it.  He  set  his  teeth  firmly, 
drew  his  sword,  dashed  aside  the  alguazil  who  attempted  to 
obstruct  his  path,  and  strode  grimly  on,  shaking  one  clenched 
hand  in  defiance,  while,  with  the  other,  he  waved  the  good 
Toledo  that  had  often  blazed  in  the  van  of  battle,  at  the  war- 
cry  of  "  St.  Jago  and  Spain  !  " 

The  alguazils  closed  round  the  soldier,  and  the  clash  of 
swords  was  already  heard  ;  when,  suddenly,  torches,  borne  on 
high,  threw  their  glare  across  the  moonlit  street,  and  two  run- 
ning footmen  called  out :  "  Make  way  for  the  most  noble  the 
Marquis  de  Siete  Iglesias  !  "  At  that  name  Fonseca  dropped 
the  point  of  his  weapon  j  the  alguazils  themselves  drew  aside ; 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  29 

and  the  tall  figure  and  pale  countenance  of  Calderon   were 
visible  amongst  the  group. 

"  What  means  this  brawl,  in  the  open  streets,  at  this  late 
hour  ?  "  said  the  minister  sternly. 

"  Calderon  !  "  exclaimed  Fonseca  ;  "  this  is,  indeed,  fortunate. 
These  caitiffs  have  dared  to  lay  hands  on  a  soldier  of  Spain, 
and  to  forge  for  their  villany  the  name  of  his  own  kinsman,  the 
Duke  de  Lerma." 

"Your  charge  against  this  gentleman?"  asked  Calderon 
calmly,  turning  to  the  principal  alguazil,  who  placed  the  writ 
of  arrest  in  the  secretary's  hand.  Calderon  read  it  leisurely, 
and  raised  his  hat  as  he  returned  it  to  the  alguazil :  he  then 
drew  aside  Fonseca. 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  said  he,  in  a  whisper.  "  Do  you  think  you 
can  resist  the  law  ?  Had  I  not  arrived  so  opportunely,  you 
would  have  converted  a  slight  accusation  into  a  capital  offence. 
Go  with  these  men  :  do  not  fear  ;  I  will  see  the  Duke,  and 
obtain  your  immediate  release.  To-morrow  I  will  visit  and 
accompany  you  home." 

Fonseca,  still  half-beside  himself  with  rage,  would  have 
replied,  but  Calderon  significantly  placed  his  finger  on  his  lip, 
and  turned  to  the  alguazils. 

"There  is  a  mistake  here:  it  will  be  rectified  to-morrow. 
Treat  this  cavalier  with  all  the  respect  and  worship  due  to  his 
birth  and  merits.  Go,  Don  Martin,  go,"  he  added,  in  a  lower 
voice  ;  "  go,  unless  you  desire  to  lose  Beatriz  forever.  Nothing 
but  obedience  can  save  you  from  the  imprisonment  of  half  a 
life  !  " 

Awed  and  subdued  by  this  threat,  Fonseca,  in  gloomy  silence, 
placed  his  sword  in  its  sheath,  and  sullenly  followed  the 
alguazils.  Calderon  watched  them  depart  with  a  thoughtful 
and  absent  look  ;  then,  starting  from  his  revery,  he  bade  his 
torch-bearers  proceed,  and  resumed  his  way  to  the  Prince  of 
Spain. 

CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    OPEN    COUNTENANCE,    THE    CONCEALED    THOUGHTS. 

THE  next  day,  at  noon,  Calderon  visited  Fonseca  in  his 
place  of  confinement.  The  young  man  was  seated  by  a  win- 
dow that  overlooked  a  large,  dull  courtyard,  with  a  neglected 
and  broken  fountain  in  the  centre,  leaning  his  cheek  upon  his 
hand.  His  long  hair  was  dishevelled,  his  dress  disordered,  and 
a  gloomy  frown  darkened  features  naturally  open  and  ingenu- 
ous. He  started  to  his  feet  as  Calderon  approached. 


30  CALOERON,    THK    COURTIER. 

"My  release — you  have  brought  my  release — let  us  forth  "' 

"My  dear  pupil,  be  ruled,  be  calm.  I  have  seen  the  Duke  : 
the  cause  of  your  imprisonment  is  as  I  suspected.  Some 
imprudent  words,  overheard,  perhaps,  but  by  your  valet,  have 
escaped  you  ;  words  intimating  your  resolution  not  to  abandon 
Beatrix.  You  know  your  kinsman,  a  man  of  doubts  and  fears — 
of  forms,  ceremonies,  and  scruples.  From  very  affection  for 
his  kindred  and  yourself,  he  has  contrived  your  arrest  ;  all  my 
expostulations  have  been  in  vain.  I  fear  your  imprisonment 
may  continue,  either  until  you  give  a  solemn  promise  to 
renounce  all  endeavor  to  dissuade  Beatriz  from  the  final  vows, 
or  until  she  herself  has  pronounced  them." 

Fonseca,  as  if  stupefied,  stared  a  moment  at  Calderon,  and 
then  burst  into  a  wild  laugh.  Calderon  continued  : 

"  Nevertheless,  do  not  despair.  Be  patient ;  I  am  ever  about 
the  Duke  ;  nay,  1  have  the  courage,  in  your  cause,  to  appeal 
even  to  the  King  himself." 

"  And  to-night  she  expects  me — to-night  she  was  to  be  free  !  " 

"We  can  convey  the  intelligence  of  your  mischance  to  her; 
the  porter  will  befriend  you." 

"  Away,  false  friend,  or  powerless  protector,  that  you  are  ! 
Are  your  promises  of  aid  come  to  this  ?  But  I  care  not ;  my 
case,  my  wrongs,  shall  be  laid  before  the  King ;  I  will  inquire 
if  it  be  thus  that  Philip  III.  treats  the  defenders  of  his  crown  ? 
Don  Roderigo  Calderon,  \vill  you  place  my  memorial  in  the 
hands  of  your  royal  master  ?  Do  this,  and  I  will  thank  you." 

"  No,  Fonseca,  I  will  not  ruin  you  ;  the  King  would  pass 
your  memorial  to  the  Duke  de  Lerma.  Tush  !  this  is  not  the 
way  that  men  of  sense  deal  with  misfortune.  Think  you  I  should 
be  what  I  now  am,  if,  in  every  reverse,  I  had  raved,  and  not 
reflected  !  Sit  down,  and  let  us  think  of  what  can  now  be 
done." 

"  Nothing,  unless  the  prison-door  open  by  sunset !  " 

"Stay,  a  thought  strikes  me.  The  term  of  your  imprison- 
ment ceases  when  you  relinquish  the  hope  of  Beatriz.  But 
what  if  the  Duke  could  believe  that  Beatriz  relinquished  you! 
What,  for  instance,  if  she  fled  from  the  convent,  as  you  pro- 
posed, and  we  could  persuade  the  Duke  that  it  was  with 
another  ?" 

"Ah,  be  silent!" 

"  Nay,  what  advantages  in  this  scheme — what  safety  !  If  she 
fly  alone,  or,  as  supposed,  with  another  lover,  the  Duke  will 
have  no  interest  in  pursuit,  in  punishment.  She  is  not  of  that 
birth  that  the  State  will  take  the  trouble,  very  actively,  to  inter- 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  3! 

fere :  she  may  reach  France  in  safety  ;  ay,  a  thousand  times 
more  safely  than  if  she  fled  with  you,  a  hidalgo  and  a  man  of 
rank,  whom  the  State  would  have  an  interest  to  reclaim,  and  to 
whom  the  Inquisition,  hating  the  nobles,  would  impute  the 
crime  of  sacrilege.  It  is  an  excellent  thought !  Your  impris- 
onment may  be  the  salvation  of  you  both  ;  your  plan  may  suc- 
ceed still  better  without  your  intervention  ;  and,  after  a  few 
days,  the  Duke,  believing  that  your  resentment  must  necessa- 
rily replace  your  love,  will  order  your  release  ;  you  can  join 
Beatriz  on  the  frontier,  and  escape  with  her  to  France." 

"  But,"  said  Fonseca,  struck,  but  not  convinced,  by  the  sug- 
gestion of  Calderon,  "  who  will  take  my  place  with  Beatriz  ? 
Who  penetrate  into  the  gardens  ?  Who  bear  her  from  the 
convent?  " 

"  That,  for  your  sake,  will  I  do.  Perhaps,"  added  Calderon, 
smiling,  "  a  courtier  may  manage  such  an  intrigue  with  even 
more  dexterity  than  a  soldier.  I  will  bear  her  to  the  house  we 
spoke  of  ;  there  I  know  she  can  lie  hid  in  safety,  till  the  lan- 
guid pursuit  of  uninterested  officials  shall  cease,  and  thence  I 
can  easily  find  means  to  transport  her,  under  safe  and  honor- 
able escort,  to  any  place  it  may  please  you  to  appoint." 

"  And  think  you  Beatriz  will  fly  with  you,  a  stranger  ?  Im- 
possible !  Your  plan  pleases  me  not." 

"  Nor  does  it  please  me,"  said  Calderon  coldly  ;  "  the  risks 
I  proposed  to  run  are  too  imminent  to  be  contemplated  com- 
placently :  I  thank  you  for  releasing  me  from  my  offer  ;  nor 
should  I  have  made  it,  Fonseca,  but  from  this  fear — what  if 
to-morrow  the  Duke  himself  (he  is  a  churchman,  remember), 
see  the  novice  ?  What  if  he  terrify  her  with  threats  against 
yourself  ?  What  if  he  induce  the  abbess  and  the  Church  to 
abridge  the  noviciate  ?  What  if  Beatriz  be  compelled  or  awed 
into  taking  the  veil?  What  if  you  be  released  even  next  week, 
and  find  her  lost  to  you  forever  ?  " 

"  They  cannot — they  dare  not !  " 

"  The  Duke  dares  all  things  for  ambition  ;  your  alliance 
with  Beatriz  he  would  hold  a  disgrace  to  his  house.  Think  not 
my  warnings  are  without  foundation — I  speak  from  authority ; 
such  is  the  course  the  Duke  de  Lerma  has  resolved  upon. 
Nothing  else  could  have  induced  me  to  offer  to  brave  for  your 
sake  all  the  hazard  of  outraging  the  law,  and  braving  the  terrors 
of  the  Inquisition.  But  let  us  think  of  some  other  plan.  Is 
your  escape  possible  ?  I  fear  not.  No  ;  you  must  trust  to  my 
chance  of  persuading  the  Duke  into  prosecuting  the  matter  no 
further ;  trust  to  some  mightier  scheme  engrossing  all  his 


32  CALDERON,    THK    COURTIER. 

thoughts  ;  to  a  fit  of  good-humor  after  his  siesta  ;  or,  perhaps, 
an  attack  of  the  gout,  or  a  stroke  of  apoplexy.  Such,  after  all, 
are  the  chances  of  human  felicity,  the  pivots  on  which  turns 
the  solemn  wheel  of  human  life  !  " 

Fonseca  made  no  reply  for  some  moments  ;  he  traversed  the 
room  with  hasty  and  disordered  strides,  and  at  last  stopped 
abruptly. 

"  Calderon,  there  is  no  option  ;  I  must  throw  myself  on  your 
generosity,  your  faith,  your  friendship.  I  will  write  to  Beatriz  ; 
I  will  tell  her,  for  my  sake,  to  confide  in  you." 

As  he  spoke,  Don  Martin  turned  to  the  table,  and  wrote  a 
hasty  and  impassioned  note,  in  which  he  implored  the  novice 
to  trust  herself  to  the  directions  of  Don  Roderigo  Calderon. 
his  best,  his  only  friend  ;  and,  as  he  placed  this  letter  in  the 
hands  of  the  courtier,  he  turned  aside  to  conceal  his  emotions. 
Calderon  himself  was  deeply  moved  :  his  cheek  was  flushed, 
and  his  hand  seemed  tremulous  as  it  took  the  letter. 

"  Remember,"  said  Fonseca,  "  that  I  trust  to  you  my  life  of 
life.  As  you  are  true  to  me,  may  Heaven  be  merciful  to 
you  !  " 

Calderon  made  no  answer,  but  turned  to  the  door. 

"  Stay,"  said  Fonseca  ;  "  I  had  forgot  this — here  is  the 
master  key." 

"  True  ;  how  dull  I  was  !  And  the  porter — will  he  attend 
to  thy  proxy  ?  " 

"  Doubt  it  not.  Accost  him  with  the  word,  '  Granada.' — 
But  he  expects  to  share  the  flight." 

"  That  can  be  arranged.  To-morrow  you  will  hear  of  my 
success.  Farewell ! " 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE    ESCAPE. 

IT  was  midnight,  in  the  chapel  of  the  convent 
The  moonlight  shone  with  exceeding  lustre  through  the 
tall  casements,  and  lit  into  a  ghastly  semblance  of  life  the 
marble  images  of  saint  and  martyr,  that  threw  their  long 
shadows  over  the  consecrated  floor.  Nothing  could  well  be 
conceived  more  dreary,  solemn,  and  sepulchral,  than  that  holy 
place:  its  distained  and  time-hallowed  walls  ;  the  impenetrable 
mass  of  darkness  that  gathered  into  those  recesses  which  the 
moonlight  failed  to  reach  ;  its  antique  and  massive  tombs, 
above  which  reclined  the  sculptured  effigies  of  some  departed 
patroness  or  abbess,  who  had  exchanged  a  living  grave  for  the 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTlEfc.  33 

Mansions  of  the  Blest.  But  there — oh,  wonderful  human 
heart  ! — even  there,  in  that  spot,  the  very  homily  and  warning 
against  earthly  affections,  and  mortal  hopes — even  there, 
couldst  thou  beat  with  as  wild,  as  bright,  and  as  pure  a  passion 
as  ever  heaved  the  breast,  and  shone  in  the  eyes  of  Beauty,  in 
the  free  air  that  ripples  the  Guadiana,  or  amidst  the  twilight 
dance  of  Castilian  maids. 

A  tall  figure,  wrapped  from  head  to  foot  in  a  cloak,  passed 
slowly  up  the  aisle.  But  light  and  cautious  though  the  foot- 
step, it  woke  a  low,  hollow,  ominous  echo,  that  seemed  more 
than  the  step  itself  to  disturb  the  sanctity  of  the  place.  It 
paused  opposite  to  a  confessional,  which  was  but  dimly  visible 
through  the  shadows  around  it.  And  then  there  emerged 
timidly  a  female  form  ;  and  a  soft  voice  whispered  :  "  It  is 
thou,  Fonseca  !  " 

"  Hist  !"  was  the  answer  ;  "he  waits  without.  Be  quick; 
speak  not — come." 

Beatrix  recoiled  in  surprise  and  alarm  at  the  voice  of  a 
stranger :  but  the  man,  seizing  her  by  the  hand,  drew  her 
hastily  from  the  chapel,  and  hurried  her  across  the  garden, 
through  a  small  postern  door,  which  stood  ajar,  into  an  obscure 
street,  bordering  the  convent  walls.  Here  stood  the  expectant 
porter,  with  a  bundle  in  his  hand,  which  he  opened,  and  took 
thence  a  long  cloak,  such  as  the  women  of  middling  rank  in 
Madrid  wore  in  the  winter  season,  with  the  customary  mantilla 
or  veil.  With  these,  still  without  speaking,  the  stranger  hastily 
shrouded  the  form  of  the  novice,  and  once  more  hurried  her 
on,  till,  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the  garden  gate,  he  came 
to  a  carriage,  into  which  he  lifted  Beatriz,  whispered  a  few 
words  to  the  porter,  seated  himself  by  the  side  of  the  novice, 
and  the  vehicle  drove  rapidly  away. 

It  was  some  moments  before  Beatriz  could  sufficiently  recover 
from  her  first  agitation  and  terror,  to  feel  alive  to  all  the 
strangeness  of  her  situation.  She  was  alone  with  a  stranger — 
where  was  Fonseca  ?  She  turned  suddenly  towards  her  com- 
panion. 

"  Who  art  thou  ? "  she  said  ;  "  Whither  art  thou  leading  me — 
and  why — " 

"  Why  is  not  Don  Martin  by  thy  side?  Pardon  me,  Senora  : 
I  have  a  billet  for  thee  from  Fonseca  ;  in  a  few  minutes  thou 
wilt  know  all." 

At  this  time  the  vehicle  came  suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  train 
of  footmen  and  equipages,  that  choked  up  the  way.  There 
was  a  brilliant  entertainment  at  the  French  embassy,  and  thither 


34  CALDERON,    THK    COURTIER. 

flocked  all  the  rank  and  chivalry  of  Madrid.  Calderon  drew 
down  the  blinds  and  hastily  enjoined  silence  on  Beatriz.  It 
was  some  minutes  before  the  driver  extricated  himself  from  the 
throng  ;  and  then,  as  if  to  make  amends  for  the  delay,  he  put 
his  horses  to  their  full  speed,  and  carefully  selected  the  most 
obscure  and  solitary  thoroughfares.  At  length  the  carriage 
entered  the  range  of  suburbs,  which  still,  at  this  day,  the  trav- 
eller passes  on  his  road  from  Madrid  to  France.  The  horses 
stopped  before  a  lonely  house  that  stood  a  little  apart  from  the 
road,  and  which,  from  the  fashion  of  its  architecture,  appeared 
of  considerable  antiquity.  The  stranger  descended,  and 
knocked  twice  at  the  door  :  it  was  opened  by  an  old  man,  whose 
exaggerated  features,  bended  frame,  and  long  beard,  proclaimed 
him  of  the  race  of  Israel.  After  a  short  and  whispered  parley, 
the  stranger  returned  to  Beatriz,  gravely  assisted  her  from  the 
carriage,  and,  leading  her  across  the  threshold,  and  up  a  flight 
of  rude  stairs,  dimly  lighted,  entered  a  chamber  richly  furnished. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  stuffs  of  gorgeous  coloring  and  elab- 
orate design.  Pedestals  of  the  whitest  marble,  placed  at  each 
corner  of  the  room,  supported  candelabra  of  silver.  The  sofas 
and  conches  were  of  the  heavy,  but  sumptuous  fashion  which 
then  prevailed  in  the  palaces  of  France  and  Spain  ;  and  of  which 
Venice  (the  true  model  of  the  barbaric  decorations  with  which 
Louis  XIV.,  corrupted  the  taste  of  Paris)  was  probably  the 
original  inventor.  In  an  alcove,  beneath  a  silken  canopy,  was 
prepared  a  table,  laden  with  wines,  fruits,  and  viands  ;  and, 
altogether,  the  elegance  and  luxury  that  characterized  the 
apartment  were  in  strong  and  strange  contrast  with  the  half- 
ruined  exterior  of  the  abode,  the  gloomy  and  rude  approach  to 
the  chamber,  and  the  mean  and  servile  aspect  of  the  Jew,  who 
stood,  or  rather  cowered  by  the  door,  as  if  waiting  for  further 
orders.  With  a  wave  of  the  hand,  the  stranger  dismissed  the 
Israelite  ;  and  then,  approaching  Beatriz,  presented  to  her 
Fonseca's  letter. 

As  with  an  enchanting  mixture  of  modesty  and  eagerness, 
Beatriz,  half-averting  her  face,  bent  over  the  well-known 
characters,  Calderon  gazed  upon  her  with  a  scrutinizing  and 
curious  eye. 

The  courtier  was  not,  in  this  instance,  altogether  the  villain 
that  from  outward  appearances  the  reader  may  have  deemed 
him.  His  plan  was  this  :  he  had  resolved  on  compliance  with 
the  wishes  of  the  Prince — his  safety  rested  on  that  compliance. 
But  Fonseca  was  not  to  be  sacrificed  without  reserve.  Pro- 
foundly despising  womankind,  and  firmly  persuaded  of  their 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  35 

constitutional  treachery  and  deceit,  Calderon  could  not  believe 
the  actress  that  angel  of  light  and  purity  which  she  seemed  to 
the  enamoured  Fonseca.  He  had  resolved  to  subject  her  to 
the  ordeal  of  the  Prince's  addresses.  If  she  fell,  should  he 
not  save  his  friend  from  being  the  dupe  of  an  artful  intriguante? 
Should  he  not  deserve  the  thanks  of  Don  Martin,  for  the  very 
temptation  to  which  Beatriz  was  now  to  be  submitted  ?  If  he 
could  convince  Fonseca  of  her  falsehood,  he  should  stand 
acquitted  to  his  friend,  while  he  should  have  secured  his  interest 
with  the  Prince.  But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  Beatriz  came 
spotless  through  the  trial  ;  if  the  Prince,  stung  by  her  obsti- 
nate virtue,  should  menace  to  sink  courtship  into  violence, 
Calderon  knew  that  it  would  not  be  in  the  first  or  second  inter- 
view that  the  novice  would  have  any  real  danger  to  apprehend  ; 
and  he  should  have  leisure  to  concert  her  escape  by  such  means 
as  would  completely  conceal  from  the  Prince  his  own  conni- 
vance at  her  flight.  Such  was  the  compromise  that  Calderon 
had  effected  between  his  conscience  and  his  ambition.  But 
while  he  gazed  upon  the  novice,  though  her  features  were 
turned  from  him,  and  half-veiled  by  the  head-dress  she  had 
assumed,  strange  feelings,  ominous  and  startling,  like  those 
remembrances  of  the  Past  which  sometimes  come  in  the  guise 
of  prophecies  of  the  Future,  thronged,  indistinct  and  dim,  upon 
his  breast.  The  unconscious  and  exquisite  grace  of  her  form, 
its  touching  youth,  an  air  of  innocence  diffused  around  it,  a 
something  helpless,  and  pleading  to  man's  protection,  in 
the  very  slightness  of  her  beautiful  but  fairy-like  proportions, 
seemed  to  reproach  his  treachery,  and  to  awaken  whatever  of 
pity  or  human  softness  remained  in  his  heart. 

The  novice  had  read  the  letter  ;  and  turning,  in  the  impulse 
of  surprise  and  alarm,  to  Calderon  for  explanation,  for  the  first 
time  she  remarked  his  features  and  his  aspect ;  for  he  had  then 
laid  aside  his  cloak,  and  the  broad  Spanish  hat  with  its  heavy 
plume.  It  was  thus  that  their  eyes  met,  and,  as  they  did  so, 
Beatriz,  starting  from  her  seat,  uttered  a  wild  cry  : 

"And  thy  name  is  Calderon — Don  Roderigo  Calderon ?  Is 
it  possible  ?  Hadst  thou  never  another  name  ?  "  she  exclaimed  ; 
and,  as  she  spoke,  she  approached  him  slowly  and  fearfully. 

"  Lady,  Calderon  is  my  name,"  replied  the  Marquis  :  but  his 
voice  faltered.  "But  thine — thine — is  it,  in  truth,  Beatriz 
Coello  ?  " 

Beatriz  made  no  reply,  but  continued  to  advance,  till  her 
very  breath  came  upon  his 'cheek  ;  she  then  laid  her  hand  upon 
his  arm,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  a  gaze  so  earnest,  so 


36  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

intent,  so  prolonged,  that  Calderon,  but  for  a  strange  and  terri* 
ble  thought — half  of  wonder,  half  of  suspicion,  which  had 
gradually  crept  into  his  soul,  and  now  usurped  it — might  have 
doubted  whether  the  reason  of  the  poor  novice  was  not  unsettled. 
Slowly  Beatriz  withdrew  her  eyes,  and  they  fell  upon  a  large 
mirror  opposite,  which  reflected  in  full  light  the  features  of 
Calderon  and  herself.  It  was  then — her  natural  bloom  having 
faded  into  a  paleness  scarcely  less  statue-like  than  that  which 
characterized  the  cheek  of  Calderon  himself,  and  all  the  sweet 
play  and  mobility  of  feature  that  belong  to  first  youth  being 
replaced  by  a  rigid  and  marble  stillness  of  expression — it  was 
then  that  a  remarkable  resemblance  between  these  two  persons 
became  visible  and  startling.  That  resemblance  struck  alike, 
and  in  the  same  instant,  both  Beatriz  and  Calderon  ;  and  both, 
gazing  on  the  mirror,  uttered  an  involuntary  and  simultaneous 
exclamation. 

With  a  trembling  and  hasty  hand  the  novice  searched  amidst 
the  folds  of  her  robe,  and  drew  forth  a  small  leathern  case, 
closed  with  clasps  of  silver.  She  touched  the  spring,  and  took 
out  a  miniature,  upon  which  she  cast  a  rapid  and  wild  glance ; 
then,  lifting  her  eyes  to  Calderon,  she  cried  :  "  It  must  be  so — 
it  is,  it  is  my  father !  "  and  fell  motionless  at  his  feet. 

Calderon  did  not  for  some  moments  heed  the  condition  of 
the  novice  :  that  chamber,  the  meditated  victim,  the  present 
time,  the  coming  evil — all  were  swept  away  from  his  soul ;  he 
was  transported  back  into  the  past,  with  the  two  dread  Spirits, 
Memory  and  Conscience  !  His  knees  knocked  together,  his 
aspect  was  livid,  the  cold  drops  stood  upon  his  brow  ;  he 
muttered  incoherently,  and  then  bent  down  and  took  up  the 
picture.  It  was  the  face  of  a  man  in  the  plain  garb  of  a  Sala- 
manca student,  and  in  the  first  flush  of  youth  ;  the  noble  brow, 
serene  and  calm,  and  stamped  alike  with  candor  and  courage  ; 
the  smooth  cheek,  rich  with  the  hues  of  health  ;  the  lips,  part- 
ing in  a  happy  smile,  and  eloquent  of  joy  and  hope  ;  it  was  the 
the  face  of  that  wily,  grasping,  ambitious,  unscrupulous  man, 
when  life  had  yet  brought  no  sin  ;  it  was,  as  if  the  ghost  of 
youth  were  come  back  to  accuse  the  crimes  of  manhood  ?  The 
miniature  fell  from  his  hand — he  groaned  aloud.  Then  gazing 
on  the  prostrate  form  of  the  novice,  he  said  :  "  Poor  wretch  ! 
can  I  believe  that  thou  art  indeed  of  mine  own  race  and  blood  ; 
or  rather,  does  not  nature,  that  stamped  these  lineaments  on 
thy  countenance,  deceive  and  mock  me  ?  If  she,  thy  mother, 
lied,  why  not  nature  herself  ?  " 

He  raised  the  novice  in  his  arms,  and  gazed  long  and  wist* 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  37 

fully  upon  her  lifeless,  but  most  lovely,  features.  She  moved 
not — she  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe ;  yet  he  fancied  he  felt 
her  embrace  tightening  around  him  ;  he  fancied  he  heard  again 
the  voice  that  hailed  him  "  FATHER  "  !  His  heart  beat  aloud, 
the  divine  instinct  overpowered  all  things,  he  pressed  a  pas- 
sionate kiss  upon  her  forehead,  and  his  tears  fell  fast  and  warm 
upon  her  cheek.  But  again  the  dark  remembrance  crossed 
him,  and  he  shuddered,  placed  the  novice  hastily  on  one  of  the 
couches,  and  shouted  aloud. 

The  Jew  appeared,  and  was  ordered  to  summon  Jacinta.  A 
young  woman  of  the  same  persuasion,  and  of  harsh  and  for- 
bidding exterior,  entered,  and  to  her  careCalderon  briefly  con- 
signed the  yet  insensible  Beatriz. 

While  Jacinta  unlaced  the  dress,  and  chafed  the  temples,  of 
the  novice,  Calderon  seemed  buried  in  gloomy  thought.  At 
last  he  strode  slowly  away,  as  if  to  quit  the  chamber,  when  his 
foot  struck  against  the  case  of  the  picture,  and  his  eye  rested 
upon  a  paper  which  lay  therein,  folded  and  embedded.  He 
took  it  up,  and,  lifting  aside  the  hangings,  hurried  into  a  small 
cabinet,  lighted  by  a  single  lamp.  Here,  alone  and  unseen, 
Calderon  read  the  following  letter  : 

"TO    RODERIGO    NUNEZ. 

"  Will  this  letter  ever  meet  thine  eyes  ?  I  know  not ;  but  it 
is  comfort  to  write  to  thee  on  the  bed  of  death  ;  and,  were  it 
not  for  that  horrible  and  haunting  thought,  that  thou  believest 
me — me  whose  very  life  was  in  thy  love — faithless  and  dis- 
honored, even  death  itself  would  be  the  sweeter,  because  it 
comes  from  the  loss  of  thee.  Yes,  something  tells  me  that 
these  lines  will  not  be  written  in  vain  ;  that  thou  wilt  read 
them  yet,  when  this  hand  is  still,  and  this  brain  at  rest, 
and  that  then  thou  wilt  feel  that  I  could  not  have  dared 
to  write  to  thee  if  I  were  not  innocent  ;  that  in  every 
word  thou  wilt  recognize  the  evidence,  that  is  strong  as 
the  voice  of  thousands — the  simple  but  solemn  evidence 
of  faith  and  truth.  What !  when  for  thee  I  deserted  all — home, 
and  a  father's  love,  wealth,  and  the  name  I  had  inherited  from 
Moors  who  had  been  monarchs  in  their  day — couldst  thou 
think  that  I  had  not  made  the  love  of  thee  the  core,  and  life, 
and  principle  of  my  very  being  !  And  one  short  year,  could 
that  suffice  to  shake  my  faith  ? — one  year  of  marriage,  but  two 
months  of  absence  ?  You  left  me,  left  that  dear  home,  by  the 
silver  Xenil.  For  love  did  not  suffice  to  you  ;  ambition  began 
to  stir  within  you,  and  you  called  it  'love,'  You  said, 'It 


38  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

grieved  you  that  I  was  poor  ;  that  you  could  not  restore  to  me 
the  luxury  and  wealth  I  had  lost.'  (Alas  !  why  did  you  turn 
so  incredulously  from  my  assurance,  that  in  you,  and  you  alone, 
were  centred  my  ambition  and  pride?)  You  declared  that 
the  vain  readers  of  the  stars  had  foretold,  at  your  cradle,  that 
you  were  predestined  to  lofty  honors  and  dazzling  power,  and 
that  the  prophecy  would  work  out  its  own  fulfilment.  You  left 
me  to  seek,  in  Madrid,  your  relation,  who  had  risen  into  the 
favor  of  a  minister,  and  from  whose  love  you  expected  to  gain 
an  opening  to  your  career.  Do  you  remember  how  we  parted — 
how  you  kissed  away  my  tears,  and  how  they  gushed  forth 
again — how  again,  and  again,  you  said,  'farewell  ! '  and  again 
and  again  returned,  as  if  we  could  never  part  !  And  I  took 
my  babe,  but  a  few  weeks  born,  from  her  cradle,  and  placed 
her  in  thy  arms,  and  bade  thee  see  that  she  had  already  learned 
thy  smile  ;  and  were  these  the  signs  of  falsehood  ?  Oh,  how  I 
pined  for  the  sound  of  thy  footstep  when  thou  wert  gone  ! 
How  all  the  summer  had  vanished  from  the  landscape  ;  and 
how,  turning  to  thy  child,  I  fancied  I  again  beheld  thee  !  The 
day  after  thou  hadst  left  me  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of 
the  cottage  ;  the  nurse  opened  it,  and  there  entered  your  former 
rival,  whom  my  father  had  sought  to  force  upon  me,  the  richest 
of  the  descendants  of  the  Moor,  Arraez  Ferrares.  Why  linger 
on  this  hateful  subject  ?  He  had  tracked  us  to  our  home,  he 
had  learned  thy  absence,  he  came  to  insult  me  with  his  vows. 
By  the  Blessed  Mother,  whom  thou  hast  taught  me  to  adore, 
by  the  terror  and  pang  of  death,  by  my  hopes  of  heaven,  I  am 
innocent,  Roderigo,  I  am  innocent  !  Oh,  how  couldst  thou  be 
so  deceived  ?  He  quitted  the  cottage,  discomfited  and  enraged  ; 
again  he  sought  me,  again  and  again  ;  and  when  the  door  was 
closed  upon  him,  he  waylaid  my  steps.  Lone  and  defenceless 
as  we  were,  thy  wife  and  child,  with  but  one  attendant,  I  feared 
him  not  ;  but  I  trembled  at  thy  return,  for  I  knew  that  thou 
wert  a  Spaniard,  a  Castilian,  and  that  beneath  thy  calm  and 
gentle  seeming  lurked  pride,  and  jealousy,  and  revenge.  Thy 
letter  came — the  only  letter  since  thy  absence,  the  last  letter 
from  thee  I  may  ever  weep  over,  and  lay  upon  my  heart.  Thy 
relation  was  dead,  and  his  wealth  enriched  a  nearer  heir.  Thou 
wert  to  return.  The  day  in  which  I  might  expect  thee 
approached — it  arrived.  During  the  last  week  I  had  seen  and 
heard  no  more  of  Ferrares.  I  trusted  that  he  had,  at  length, 
discovered  the  vanity  of  his  pursuit.  I  walked  into  the  valley, 
thy  child  in  my  arms,  to  meet  thee  ;  but  thou  didst  not  come. 
The  sun  set,  and  the  light  of  thine  eyes  replaced  not  the 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  39 

declining  day.  I  returned  home,  and  watched  for  thee  all 
night,  but  in  vain.  The  next  morning,  again,  I  went  forth  into 
the  valley,  and  again,  with  a  sick  heart,  returned  to  my  desolate 
home.  It  was  then  noon.  As  I  approached  the  door  I  per- 
ceived Ferrares.  He  forced  his  entrance.  I  told  him  of  thy  ex- 
pected return,  and  threatened  him  with  thy  resentment.  He  left 
me  ;  and,  terrified  with  a  thousand  vague  forebodings,  I  sat  down 
to  weep.  The  nurse,  Leonarda,  was  watching  by  the  cradle  of 
our  child,  in  the  inner  room.  I  was  alone.  Suddenly  the  door 
opened.  I  heard  thy  step  ;  I  knew  it ;  I  knew  its  music.  I 
started  up.  Saints  of  heaven  !  what  a  meeting — what  a  return  ! 
Pale,  haggard,  thine  hands  and  garments  dripping  blood,  thine 
eyes  blazing  with  insane  fire,  a  terrible  smile  of  mockery  on 
thy  lip,  thou  stoodst  before  me.  I  would  have  thrown  myself 
on  thy  breast ;  thou  didst  cast  me  from  thee  ;  I  fell  on  my 
knees,  and  thy  blade  was  pointed  at  my  heart — the  heart  so 
full  of  thee  !  '  He  is  dead,'  didst  thou  say,  in  a  hollow  voice  ; 
'he  is  dead — thy  paramour — take  thy  bed  beside  him!'  I 
know  not  what  I  said,  but  it  seemed  to  move  thee  ;  thy  hand 
trembled,  and  the  point  of  thy  weapon  dropped.  It  was  then 
that,  hearing  thy  voice,  Leonarda  hastened  into  the  room,  and 
bore  in  her  arms  thy  child.  'See,' I  exclaimed,  'see  thy 
daughter  ;  see,  she  stretches  her  hands  to  thee — she  pleads  for 
her  mother  ! '  At  that  sight  thy  brow  became  dark,  the  demon 
seized  upon  thee  again.  '  Mine  ! '  were  thy  cruel  words — they 
ring  in  my  ear  still — '  no  !  she  was  born  before  the  time — ha  ! 
ha  ! — thou  didst  betray  me  from  the  first ! '  With  that  thou 
didst  raise  thy  sword  ;  but,  even  then  (ah,  blessed  thought  ! 
even  then)  remorse  and  love  palsied  thy  hand,  and  averted 
thy  gaze  :  the  blow  was  not  that  of  death.  I  fell,  senseless, 
to  the  ground,  and,  when  I  recovered,  thou  wert  gone.  De- 
lirium succeeded  ;  and,  when  once  more  my  senses  and  reason 
returned  to  me,  I  found  by  my  side  a  holy  priest,  and  from 
him,  gradually,  I  learned  all  that  till  then  was  dark.  Ferrares 
had  been  found  in  the  valley,  weltering  in  his  blood.  Borne 
to  a  neighboring  monastery,  he  lingered  a  few  days,  to  confess 
the  treachery  he  has  practised  on  thee  ;  to  adopt,  in  his  last 
hours,  the  Christian  faith  ;  and  to  attest  his  crime  with  his  own 
signature.  He  enjoined  the  monk,  who  had  converted  and  con- 
fessed him,  to  place  this  proof  of  my  innocence  in  my  hands. 
Behold  it  enclosed  within.  If  this  letter  ever  reach  thee,  thou 
wilt  learn  how  thy  wife  was  true  to  thee  in  life,  and  has,  there- 
fore, the  right  to  bless  thee  in  death." 

At  this  passage  Calderon  dropped  the  letter,  an4  was  seized 


40  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

with  a  kind  of  paralysis,  which,  for  some  moments,  seemed  to 
deprive  him  of  life  itself.  When  he  recovered,  he  eagerly 
grasped  a  scroll  that  was  enclosed  in  the  letter,  but  which, 
hitherto,  he  had  disregarded.  Even  then,  so  strong  were  his 
emotions,  that  sight  itself  was  obscured  and  dimmed,  and  it 
was  long  before  he  could  read  the  characters,  which  were  al- 
ready discolored  by  time. 

"TO  INEZ. 

"  I  have  but  a  few  hours  to  live — let  me  spend  them  in 
atonement  and  in  prayer,  less  for  myself  than  thee.  Thou 
knowest  not  how  madly  I  adored  thee  ;  and  how  thy  hatred  or 
indifference  stung  every  passion  into  torture.  Let  this  pass. 
When  I  saw  thee  again — the  forsaker  of  thy  faith — poor,  ob- 
scure, and  doomed  to  a  peasant's  lot — daring  hopes  shaped 
themselves  into  fierce  resolves.  Finding  that  thou  wert  inex- 
orable, I  turned  my  arts  upon  thy  husband.  I  knew  his  poverty 
and  his  ambition  :  we  Moors  have  had  ample  knowledge  of 
the  avarice  of  the  Christians  ?  I  bade  one  whom  I  could 
trust  seek  him  out  at  Madrid.  Wealth — lavish  wealth — wealth 
that  could  open  to  a  Spaniard  all  the  gates  of  power,  was 
offered  to  him  if  he  would  renounce  thee  forever.  Nay,  in 
order  to  crush  out  all  love  from  his  breast,  it  was  told  him  that 
mine  was  the  prior  right ;  that  thou  hadst  yielded  to  my  suit 
ere  thou  didst  fly  with  him  ;  that  thou  didst  use  his  love  as  an 
escape  from  thine  own  dishonor  ;  that  thy  very  child  owned 
another  father.  I  had  learned,  and  I  availed  myself  of  the 
knowledge,  that  it  was  born  before  its  time.  We  had  miscal- 
culated the  effect  of  this  representation,  backed  and  supported 
by  forged  letters  :  instead  of  abandoning  thee,  he  thought  only 
of  revenge  for  his  shame.  As  I  left  thy  house,  the  last  time  I 
gazed  upon  thy  indignant  eyes,  I  found  the  avenger  on  my 
path  !  He  had  seen  me  quit  thy  roof — he  needed  no  other 
confirmation  of  the  tale.  I  fell  into  the  pit  which  I  had  digged 
for  thee.  Conscience  unnerved  my  hand  and  blunted  my 
sword  :  our  blades  scarcely  crossed  before  his  weapon  stretched 
me  on  the  ground.  They  tell  me  he  has  fled  from  the  anger 
of  the  law  ;  let  him  return  without  a  fear.  Solemnly,  and  from 
the  bed  of  death,  and  in  the  sight  of  the  last  tribunal,  I  pro- 
claim to  justice  and  the  world  that  we  fought  fairly,  and  I  perish 
justly.  I  have  adopted  thy  faith,  though  I  cannot  compre- 
hend its  mysteries.  It  is  enough  that  it  holds  out  to  me  the 
only  hope  that  we  small  meet  again.  I  direct  these  lines  to  be 
transmitted  to  thee — -an  eternal  proof  of  thy  innocence  and  my 


CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER.  41 

guilt.     Ah,  canst   thou  forgive   me?     I   knew   no   sin   till   I 
knew  thee.  ARRAEZ  FERRARES." 

Calderon  paused  ere  he  turned  to  the  concluding  lines  of  his 
wife's  letter ;  and,  though  he  remained  motionless  and  speech- 
less, never  were  agony  and  despair  stamped  more  terribly  on 
the  face  of  man. 

CONCLUSION  OF  THE  LETTER  OF  INEZ. 

"  And  what  avails  to  me  this  testimony  of  my  faith  ?  Thou 
art  fled  ;  they  cannot  track  thy  footsteps  ;  I  shall  see  thee  no 
more  on  earth.  I  am  dying  fast,  but  not  of  the  wound  I 
took  from  thee  ;  let  not  that  thought  darken  thy  soul,  my  hus- 
band !  No,  that  wound  is  healed.  Thought  is  sharper  than 
the  sword.  I  have  pined  away  for  the  loss  of  thee,  and  thy 
love  !  Can  the  shadow  live  without  the  sun  ?  And  wilt  thou 
never  place  thy  hands  on  my  daughter's  head  and  bless 
her  for  her  mother's  sake?  Ah,  yes — yes!  The  saints 
that  watch  over  our  human  destinies  will  one  day  cast  her 
in  thy  way :  and  the  same  hour  that  gives  thee  a  daugh- 
ter shall  redeem  and  hallow  the  memory  of  a  wife.  .  .  . 
Leonarda  has  vowed  to  be  a  mother  to  our  child  ;  to  tend 
her,  work  for  her,  rear  her,  though  in  poverty,  to  virtue.  I 
consign  these  letters  to  Leonarda's  charge,  with  thy  picture — 
never  to  be  removed  from  my  breast  till  the  heart  within  has 
ceased  to  beat.  Not  till  Beatrix  (I  have  so  baptized  her — it 
was  thy  mother's  name  !)  has  attained  to  the  age  when  reason 
can  wrestle  with  the  knowledge  of  sorrow,  shall  her  years  be 
shadowed  with  the  knowledge  of  our  fate.  Leonarda  has  per- 
suaded me  that  Beatriz  shall  not  take  thy  name  of  Nunez. 
Our  tale  has  excited  horror — for  it  is  not  understood — and 
thou  art  called  the  murderer  of  thy  wife  ;  and  the  story  of  our 
misfortunes  would  cling  to  our  daughter's  life,  and  reach  her 
ears,  and  perhaps  mar  her  fate.  But  I  know  that  thou  wilt 
discover  her  not  the  less,  for  Nature  has  a  providence  of  its 
own.  When  at  last  you  meet  her,  protect,  guard,  love  her — 
sacred  to  you  as  she  is,  and  shall  be — the  pure  but  mournful 
legacy  of  love  and  death.  I  have  done  :  I  die  blessing  thee  ! 

"INEZ." 

Scarce  had  he  finished  these  last  words,  ere  the  clock  struck  : 
it  was  the  hour  in  which  the  Prince  was  to  arrive.  The  thought 
restored  Calderon  to  the  sense  of  the  present  time — the  ap- 
proaching peril.  All  the  cold  calculations  he  had  formed  for 
the  stranger-novice  vanished  now.  He  kissed  the  letter  pas- 


42  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

sionately,  placed  it  in  his  breast,  and  hurried  into  the  chamber 
where  he  had  left  his  child.     Our  tale  returns  to  Fonseca. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   COUNTERPLOT. 

CALDERON  had  not  long  left  the  young  soldier,  before  the 
governor  of  the  prison  entered,  to  pay  his  respects  to  a  captive 
of  such  high  birth  and  military  reputation. 

Fonseca,  always  blunt  and  impatient  of  mood,  was  not  in  a 
humor  to  receive  and  return  compliments  ;  but  the  governor 
had  scarcely  seated  himself,  ere  he  struck  a  chord  in  the  con- 
versation which  immediately  arrested  the  attention  and  engaged 
the  interest  of  the  prisoner. 

"Do  not  fear,  sir,"  said  he,  "  that  you  will  be  long  detained ; 
the  power  of  your  enemy  is  great,  but  it  will  not  be  of  duration. 
The  storm  is  already  gathering  round  him ;  he  must  be  more 
than  man  if  he  escapes  the  thunderbolt." 

"  Do  you  speak  to  me  thus  of  my  own  kinsman,  the  Cardinal 
Duke  de  Lerma?" 

"  No,  Don  Martin,  pardon  me.  I  spoke  of  the  Marquis  de 
Siete  Iglesias.  Are  you  so  great  a  stranger  to  Madrid  and  to 
the  court,  as  to  suppose  that  the  Cardinal  de  Lerma  ever 
signs  a  paper  but  at  the  instance  of  Don  Roderigo  ?  Nay,  that 
he  ever  looks  over  the  paper  to  which  he  sets  his  hand  ?  De- 
pend upon  it,  you  are  here  to  gratify  the  avarice  or  revenge  of 
the  Scourge  of  Spain." 

"  Impossible  !  "  cried  Fonseca.  "  Don  Roderigo  is  my 
friend — my  intercessor.  He  overwhelms  me  with  his  kind- 
ness." 

"  Then  you  are  indeed  lost,"  said  the  governor,  in  accents  of 
compassion  :  "  the  tiger  always  caresses  his  prey  before  he  de- 
vours it.  What  have  you  done  to  provoke  his  kindness  ?  " 

"  Senor,"  said  Fonseca  suspiciously,  "  you  speak  with  a 
strange  want  of  caution  to  a  stranger,  and  against  a  man 
whose  power  you  confess." 

"  Because  I  am  safe  from  his  revenge  ;  because  the  Inquisi- 
tion have  already  fixed  their  fatal  eyes  upon  him  ;  because  by 
that  Inquisition  I  am  not  unknown  nor  unprotected  ;  because 
I  see,  with  joy  and  triumph,  the  hour  approaching  that  must 
render  up  to  justice  the  pander  of  the  Prince,  the  betrayer  of 
the  King,  the  robber  of  the  people  ;  because  I  have  an  interest 
in  thee,  Don  Martin,  of  which  thou  wilt  be  aware  when  thou 
hast  learned  my  name.  I  am  Juan  de  la  Nuza,  the  father  of 


CALDERON,    THE     COURTIER.  43 

the  young  officer  whose  life  you  saved  in  the  assault  of  the 
Moriscos,  in  Valentia,  and  I  owe  you  an  everlasting  gratitude." 

There  was  something  in  the  frank  and  hearty  tone  of  the 
governor  which  at  once  won  Fonseca's  confidence.  He  became 
agitated  and  distracted  with  suspicions  of  his  former  tutor  and 
present  patron. 

"  What,  I  ask,  hast  thou  done  to  attract  his  notice  ?  Calde- 
ron  is  not  capricious  in  cruelty.  Art  thou  rich,  and  does  he 
hope  that  thou  wilt  purchase  freedom  with  five  thousand  pis- 
toles ?  No  !  Hast  thou  crossed  the  path  of  his  ambition  ?  Hast 
thou  been  seen  with  Uzeda  ?  Or  art  thou  in  favor  with  the 
Prince  ?  No,  again  !  Then,  hast  thou  some  wife,  some  sister, 
some  mistress,  of  rare  accomplishments  and  beauty,  with  whom 
Calderon  would  gorge  the  fancy  and  retain  the  esteem  of  the 
profligate  Infant  ?  Ah,  thou  changest  color  !  " 

"  By  Heaven  !  you  madden  me  with  these  devilish  surmises. 
Speak  plainly." 

"  I  see  thou  knowest  not  Calderon,"  said  the  governor,  with 
a  bitter  smile.  "  I  do — for  my  niece  was  beautiful,  and  the 
Prince  wooed  her —  But  enough  of  that  :  at  his  scaffold,  or 
at  the  rack,  I  shall  be  avenged  on  Roderigo  Calderon.  You 
said  the  Cardinal  was  your  kinsman  ;  you  are,  then,  equally 
related  to  his  son,  the  Duke  d'Uzeda.  Apply  not  to  Lerma ; 
he  is  the  tool  of  Calderon.  Apply  yourself  to  Uzeda  ;  he  is 
Calderon's  mortal  foe.  While  Calderon  gains  ground  with  the 
Prince,  Uzeda  advances  with  the  King.  Uzeda,  by  a  word, 
can  procure  thy  release.  The  Duke  knows  and  trusts  me. 
Shall  I  be  commissioned  to  acquaint  him  with  thy  arrest,  and 
intreat  his  intercession  with  Philip  ?  " 

"You  give  me  new  life  !  But  not  an  hour  is  to  be  lost ;  this 
night — this  day — oh,  Mother  of  Mercy  !  what  image  have  you 
conjured  up  !  Fly  to  Uzeda,  if  you  would  save  my  very  reason. 
I  myself  have  scarcely  seen  him  since  my  boyhood — Lerma 
forbade  me  to  seek  his  friendship.  But  I  am  of  his  race — his 
blood." 

"  Be  cheered — I  shall  see  the  Duke  to-day.  I  have  business 
with  him  where  you  wot  not.  We  are  bringing  strange  events 
to  a  crisis.  Hope  the  best." 

With  this  the  governor  took  his  leave. 

At  the  dusk  of  the  evening,  Don  Juan  de  la  Nuza,  wrapped 
in  a  dark  mantle,  stood  before  a  small  door,  deep-set  in  a  mas- 
sive and  gloomy  wall,  that  stretched  along  one  side  of  a  shunned 
and  deserted  street.  Without  sign  of  living  hand,  the  door 
opened  at  his  knock,  and  the  governor  entered  a  long  and  nar- 


44  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

row  passage  that  conducted  to  chambers  more  associated  with 
images  of  awe  than  any  in  his  own  prison.  Here  he  suddenly 
encountered  the  Jesuit,  Fray  Louis  de  Aliaga,  confessor  to  the 
king. 

"  How  fares  the  Grand  Inquisitor  ?  "  asked  De  la  Nuza. 

"  He  has  just  breathed  his  last,"  answered  the  Jesuit.  "  His 
illness — so  sudden — defied  all  aid.  Sandoval  y  Roxas  is  with 
the  saints." 

The  governor,  who  was,  as  the  reader  may  suppose,  one  of 
the  sacred  body,  crossed  himself,  and  answered — "  With  whom 
will  rest  the  appointment  of  the  successor  ?  Who  will  be  first 
to  gain  the  ear  of  the  King  ?  " 

"  I  know  not,"  replied  the  Jesuit ;  "  but  I  am  this  instant 
summoned  to  Uzeda.  Pardon  my  haste." 

So  saying,  Aliaga  glided  away. 

"  With  Sandoval  y  Roxas,"  muttered  Don  Juan,  "  dies  the 
last  protector  of  Calderon  and  Lerma  :  unless,  indeed,  the 
wily  Marquis  can  persuade  the  King  to  make  Aliaga,  his  friend, 
the  late  cardinal's  successor.  But  Aliaga  seeks  Uzeda — Uzeda, 
his  foe  and  rival.  What  can  this  portend  ?" 

Thus  soliloquizing,  the  governor  silently  continued  his  way 
till  he  came  to  a  door  by  which  stood  two  men,  masked,  who 
saluted  him  with  a  mute  inclination  of  the  head.  The  door 
opened  and  again  closed,  as  the  governor  entered. 

Meanwhile,  the  confessor  had  gained  the  palace  of  the  Duke 
d'Uzeda.  Uzeda  was  not  alone  :  with  him  was  a  man  whose 
sallow  complexion,  ill-favored  features,  and  simple  dress, 
strangely  contrasted  the  showy  person  and  sumptuous  habili- 
ments of  the  Duke.  But  the  instant  this  personage  opened  his 
lips,  the  comparison  was  no  longer  to  his  prejudice.  Some- 
thing in  the  sparkle  of  his  deep-set  eye,  in  the  singular  enchant- 
ment of  his  smile,  and  above  all,  in  the  tone  of  a  very  musical 
and  earnest  voice,  chained  attention  at  once  to  his  words.  And, 
whatever  those  words,  there  was  about  the  man,  and  his  mode 
of  thought  and  expression,  the  stamp  of  a  mind  at  once  crafty 
and  commanding.  This  personage  was  Caspar  de  Guzman, 
then  but  a  gentleman  of  the  Prince's  chamber  (which  post  he 
owed  to  Calderon,  whose  creature  he  was  supposed  to  be), 
afterwards  so  celebrated  in  the  history  of  Philip  IV.  as  Count 
of  Olivares,  and  prime  minister  of  Spain. 

The  conversation  between  Guzman  and  Uzeda,  just  before 
the  Jesuit  entered,  was  drawing  to  a  close. 

"  You  see,"  said  Uzeda,  "that  if  we  desire  to  crush  Calderon, 
it  is  on  the  Inquisition  that  we  must  depend.  Now  is  the  time 


CALDERON,    THE    COURttEft.  45 

to  elect,  in  the  successor  of  Sandoval  y  Roxas,  one  pledged  to 
the  favorite's  ruin.  The  reason  I  choose  Aliaga  is  this  :  Cal- 
deron  will  never  suspect  his  friendship,  and  will  not,  therefore, 
thwart  us  with  the  King.  The  Jesuit,  who  would  sell  all  Chris- 
tendom for  the  sake  of  advancement  to  his  order  or  himself, 
will  gladly  sell  Calderon  to  obtain  the  chair  of  the  Inquisition." 

"  1  believe  it,"  replied  Guzman.  "I  approve  your  choice  ; 
and  you  may  rely  on  me  to  destroy  Calderon  with  the  Prince. 
I  have  found  out  the  way  to  rule  Philip  ;  it  is  by  never  giving 
him  a  right  to  despise  his  favorites  ;  it  is,  to  flatter  his  vanity, 
but  not  to  share  his  vices.  Trust  me,  you  alone — if  you  follow 
my  suggestions — can  be  minister  to  the  Fourth  Philip." 

Here  a  page  entered  to  announce  Don  Fray  Louis  de  Aliaga. 

Uzeda  advanced  to  the  door,  and  received  the  holy  man 
with  profound  respect. 

"  Be  seated,  father,  and  let  me  at  once  to  business  ;  for  time 
presses,  and  all  must  be  despatched  to-night.  Before  interest 
is  made  by  others  with  the  King,  we  must  be  prompt  in  gaining 
the  appointment  of  Sandoval's  successor." 

"  Report  says  that  the  Cardinal-duke,  your  father,  himself 
desires  the  vacant  chair  of  the  Inquisition." 

"  My  poor  father  !  he  is  old — his  sun  has  set.  No,  Aliaga  ; 
I  have  thought  of  one  fitter  for  that  high  and  stern  office  :  in 
a  word,  that  appointment  rests  with  yourself.  I  can  make  you 
Grand  Inquisitor  of  Spain — I." 

"  Me  !  "  said  the  Jesuit,  and  he  turned  aside  his  face.  "You 
jest  with  me,  noble  son." 

"  I  am  serious — hear  me.  We  have  been  foes  and  rivals  ; 
why  should  not  our  path  be  the  same  ?  Calderon  has  deprived 
you  of  friends  more  powerful  than  himself.  His  hour  is  come. 
The  Duke  de  Lerma's  downfall  cannot  be  avoided  ;  if  it  could, 
I,  his  son,  would  not,  as  you  may  suppose,  withhold  my  hand. 
But  business  fatigues  him — he  is  old — the  affairs  of  Spain  are 
in  a  deplorable  condition — they  need  younger  and  abler  hands. 
My  father  will  not  repine  at  a  retirement  suited  to  his  years, 
and  which  shall  be  made  honorable  to  his  gray  hairs.  But 
some  victim  must  glut  the  rage  of  the  people ;  that  victim  must 
be  the  upstart  Calderon  ;  the  means  of  his  punishment,  the 
Inquisition.  Now,  you  understand  me.  On  one  condition, 
you  shall  be  the  successor  to  Sandoval.  Know  that  I  do  not 
promise  without  the  power  to  fulfil.  The  instant  I  learned  that 
the  late  Cardinal's  death  was  certain,  I  repaired  to  the  King. 
I  have  the  promise  of  the  appointment ;  and  this  night  your 
name  shall,  if  you  accept  the  condition,  and  Calderon  does  not, 


46  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

in  the  interim,  see  the  King,  and  prevent  the  nomination,  re- 
ceive the  royal  sanction." 

"  Our  excellent  Aliaga  cannot  hesitate,"  said  Don  Caspar  de 
Guzman.  "  The  order  of  Loyola  rests  upon  shoulders  that  can 
well  support  the  load." 

Before  that  trio  separated,  the  compact  was  completed. 
Aliaga  practised  against  his  friend  the  lesson  he  had  preached 
to  him — that  the  end  sanctifies  all  means.  Scarce  had  Aliaga 
departed  ere  Juan  de  la  Nuza  entered  ;  for  Uzeda,  who  sought 
to  make  the  Inquisition  his  chief  instrument  of  power,  courted 
the  friendship  of  all  its  officers.  He  readily  promised  to  ob- 
tain the  release  of  Fonseca  ;  and,  in  effect  it  was  but  little  after 
midnight  when  an  order  arrived  at  the  prison  for  the  release  of 
Don  Martin  Fonseca,  accompanied  by  a  note  from  the  Duke  to 
the  prisoner,  full  of  affectionate  professions,  and  requesting  to 
see  him  the  next  morning. 

Late  as  the  hour  was,  and  in  spite  of  the  expostulations  of 
the  governor,  who  wished  him  to  remain  the  night  within  the 
prison  in  the  hope  to  extract  from  him  his  secret,  Fonseca  no 
sooner  received  the  order  than  he  claimed  and  obtained  his 
liberation. 

CHAPTER  X. 

WE  REAP    WHAT    WE   SOW. 

WITH  emotions  of  joy  and  triumph,  such  as  had  never  yet 
agitated  his  reckless  and  abandoned  youth,  the  Infant  of  Spain 
bent  his  way  towards  the  lonely  house  on  the  road  to  Fuen- 
carral.  He  descended  from  his  carnage  when  about  a  hun- 
dred yards  from  the  abode  and  proceeded  on  foot  to  the 
appointed  place. 

The  Jew  opened  the  door  to  the  Prince  with  a  hideous  grin 
on  his  hollow  cheek  ;  and  Philip  hastened  up  the  stairs,  and, 
entering  the  chamber  we  have  before  described,  beheld,  to  his 
inconceivable  consternation  and  dismay,  the  form  of  Beatriz 
clasped  in  the  arms  of  Calderon,  her  head  leaning  on  his 
bosom  ;  while  his  voice,  half-choked  with  passionate  sobs, 
called  upon  her  in  the  most  endearing  terms. 

For  a  moment  the  Prince  stood  spellbound  and  speechless, 
at  the  threshold  ;  then,  striking  the  hilt  of  his  sword  fiercely, 
he  exclaimed,  "  Traitor  !  is  it  thus  thou  hast  kept  thy  promise  ? 
Dost  thou  not  tremble  at  my  vengeance  ?" 

"  Peace  !  peace  !  "  said  Calderon  in  an  imperious  but  sepul- 
chral tone,  and  waving  one  hand  with  a  gesture  of  impatience 


CALDEROV.    THE    COURTIER.  47 

and  rebuke,  while  with  the  other  he  removed  the  long  cluster- 
ing hair  that  fell  over  the  pale  face  of  the  still  insensible  novice. 
"  Peace,  Prince  of  Spain  ;  thy  voice  scares  back  the  struggling 
life — peace  !  Look  up,  image  and  relic  of  the  lost — the  mur- 
dered— the  martyr  !  Hush  !  do  you  hear  her  breathe,  or 
is  she  with  her  mother  in  that  heaven  which  is  closed  on  me  ? 
Live  !  live  !  my  daughter — my  child — live  !  For  thy  life  in  the 
World  Hereafter  will  not  be  mine  !  " 

"  What  means  this  ?  "  said  the  Prince  falteringly.  "  What 
delusion  do  thy  wiles  practise  upon  me?" 

Calderon  made  no  answer  ;  and  at  that  instant  Beatriz  sighed 
heavily,  and  her  eyes  opened. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  ! — thou  art  my  child  !  Speak — let 
me  hear  thy  voice — again  let  it  call  me  'father' ! " 

And  Calderon  dropped  on  his  knees,  and,  clasping  his  hands 
fervently,  looked  up  imploringly  in  her  face.  The  novice,  now 
slowly  returning  to  life  and  consciousness,  strove  to  speak  : 
her  voice  failed  her,  but  her  lips  smiled  upon  Calderon,  and 
her  arms  fell  feebly  but  endearingly  around  his  neck. 

"  Bless  thee  !  bless  thee  !  "  exclaimed  Calderon.  "  Bless 
thee  in  thy  sweet  mother's  name  !  " 

While  he  spoke,  the  eyes  of  Beatriz  caught  the  form  of 
Philip,  who  stood  by,  leaning  on  his  sword  ;  his  face  working 
with  various  passions,  and  his  lip  curling  with  stern  and  intense 
disdain.  Accustomed  to  know  human  life  but  in  its  worst  shapes, 
and  Calderon  only  by  his  vices  and  his  arts,  the  voice  of  nature 
uttered  no  language  intelligible  to  the  Prince.  He  regarded 
the  whole  as  some  well  got-up  device — some  trick  of  the  stage  ; 
and  waited,  with  impatience  and  scorn,  the  dtnotiement  of  the 
imposture. 

At  the  sight  of  that  mocking  face,  Beatriz  shuddered  and 
fell  back  ;  but  her  very  alarm  revived  her,  and,  starting  to  her 
feet,  she  exclaimed  :  "Save  me  from  that  bad  man — save  me! 
My  father,  I  am  safe  with  thee  !  " 

"Safe!"  echoed  Calderon— "ay,  safe  against  the  world. 
But  not,"  he  added,  looking  round,  and  in  a  low  and  muttered 
tone,  "  not  in  this  foul  abode  ;  its  very  air  pollutes  thee.  Let 
us  hence  :  come — come — my  daughter  !  "  and  winding  his  arm 
round  her  waist,  he  hurried  her  towards  the  door. 

"  Back,  traitor  !  "  cried  Philip,  placing  himself  full  in  the  path 
of  the  distracted  and  half-delirious  father.  "  Back  !  thinkest 
thou  that  I,  thy  master  and  thy  Prince,  am  to  be  thus  duped, 
and  thus  insulted  ?  Not  for  thine  own  pleasure  hast  thou 
snatched  her,  whom  I  have  honored  with  my  love,  from  the 


48  CALDERON,   THE    COURTIER. 

sanctuary  of  the  Church.  Go,  if  thou  wilt ;  but  Beatriz  remains. 
This  roof  is  sacred  to  my  will.  Back  !  or  thy  next  step  is  on 
the  point  of  my  sword." 

"  Menace  not,  speak  not,  Philip — I  am  desperate.  I  am 
beside  myself — I  cannot  parley  with  thee.  Away  !  by  thy 
hopes  of  Heaven,  away  !  1  am  no  longer  thy  minion — thy  tool. 
I  am  a  father,  and  the  protector  of  my  child." 

"Brave  device — notable  tale  !  "  cried  Philip  scornfully,  and 
placing  his  back  against  the  door.  "The  little  actress  plays 
her  part  well,  it  must  be  owned — it  is  her  trade  ;  but  thou  art 
a  bungler,  my  gentle  Calderon." 

For  a  moment  the  courtier  stood,  not  irresolute,  but  over- 
come with  the  passions  that  shook  to  their  centre  a  nature,  the 
stormy  and  stern  elements  of  which  the  habit  of  years  had 
rather  mastered  than  quelled.  At  last,  with  a  fierce  cry,  he 
suddenly  grasped  the  Prince  by  the  collar  of  his  vest  ;  and  ere 
Philip  could  avail  himself  of  his  weapon,  swung  him  aside  with 
such  violence  that  he  lost  his  balance  and  (his  foot  slipping  on 
the  polished  floor)  fell  to  the  ground.  Calderon  then  opened 
the  door,  lifted  Beatriz  in  both  his  arms,  and  fled  precipitately 
down  the  stairs.  He  could  no  longer  trust  to  chance  and 
delay,  against  the  dangers  of  that  abode. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

HOWSOEVER  THE  RIVERS  WIND,  THE  OCEAN  RECEIVES  THEM  ALL. 

MEANWHILE  Fonseca  had  reached  the  Convent ;  had  found 
the  porter  gone  ;  and,  with  a  mind  convulsed  with  apprehen- 
sion and  doubt,  had  flown  on  the  wings  of  love  and  fear  to  the 
house  indicated  by  Calderon.  The  grim  and  solitary  mansion 
came  just  in  sight — the  moon  streaming  sadly  over  its  gray  and 
antique  walls — when  he  heard  his  name  pronounced  ;  and  the 
convent  porter  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  a  wall  beside 
which  he  had  ensconced  himself. 

"Don  Martin!  it  is  thou  indeed;  blessed  be  the  saints! 
I  began  to  fear — nay,  I  fear  now,  that  we  were  deceived." 

"Speak,  man,  but  stop  me  not !  Speak!  what  horrors  hast 
thou  to  utter." 

"  I  knew  the  cavalier  whom  thou  didst  send  in  thy  place  ! 
Who  knows  not  Roderigo  Calderon  ?  I  trembled  when  I  saw 
him  lift  the  novice  into  the  carriage  ;  but  I  thought  I  should, 
as  agreed,  be  companion  in  the  flight.  Not  so.  Don  Roderigo 
briefly  told  me  to  hide  where  I  could,  this  night ;  and  that  to» 


CALDERON,  THE  COURTIER  49 

morrow  he  would  arrange  preparations  for  my  flight  from 
Madrid.  My  mind  misgave  me,  for  Calderon's  name  is  black- 
ened by  many  curses.  I  resolved  to  follow  the  carriage.  I 
did  so  ;  but  my  breath  and  speed  nearly  failed,  when,  fortu- 
nately, the  carriage  was  stopped  and  entangled  by  a  crowd  in 
the  street.  No  lackeys  were  behind  ;  I  mounted  the  footboard 
unobserved,  and  descended  and  hid  myself  when  the  carriage 
stopped.  I  knew  not  the  house,  but  I  knew  the  neighbor- 
hood— a  brother  of  mine  lives  at  hand.  I  sought  my  relative 
for  a  night's  shelter.  I  learned  that  dark  stories  had  given  to 
that  house  an  evil  name.  It  was  one  of  those  which  the  Prince 
of  Spain  had  consecrated  to  the  pursuits  that  have  dishonored  so 
many  families  in  Madrid.  I  resolved  again  to  go  forth  and 
watch.  Scarce  had  I  reached  this  very  spot,  when  I  saw  a 
carriage  approach  rapidly.  I  secreted  myself  behind  a  but- 
tress, and  saw  the  carriage  halt ;  and  a  man  descended,  and 
walked  to  the  house.  See  there — there,  by  yon  crossing,  the 
carriage  still  waits.  The  man  was  wrapped  in  a  mantle.  I 
know  not  whom  he  may  be  ;  but — " 

"  Heaven  !  "  cried  Fonseca,  as  they  were  now  close  before  the 
door  of  the  house  at  which  Calderon's  carriage  still  stood  ;  "  I 
hear  a  noise,  a  shriek,  within." 

Scarce  had  he  spoken  when  the  door  opened.  Voices  were 
heard  in  loud  altercation  ;  presently  the  form  of  the  Jew  was 
thrown  on  the  pavement,  and  dashing  aside  another  man,  who 
seemed  striving  to  detain  him,  Calderon  appeared,  his  drawn 
sword  in  his  right  hand,  his  left  arm  clasped  around  Beatriz. 

Fonseca  darted  forward. 

"  My  lover  !  my  betrothed  !  "  exclaimed  the  voice  of  the 
novice  :  "  thou  art  come  to  save  us — to  save  thy  Beatriz  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  and  to  chastise  the  betrayer !  "  exclaimed  Fonseca 
in  a  voice  of  thunder.  "  Leave  thy  victim,  villain  !  Defend 
thyself  !  " 

He  made  a  desperate  lunge  at  Calderon  while  he  spoke. 
The  Marquis  feebly  parried  the  stroke. 

I*  Hold  !  "  he  cried.     "  Not  on  me  !  " 

"  No — no  !  "  exclaimed  Beatriz,  throwing  herself  on  her 
father's  breast.  The  words  came  too  late.  Blinded  and  deaf- 
ened with  rage,  Fonseca  had  again,  with  more  sure  and  dead- 
ly aim,  directed  his  weapon  against  his  supposed  foe.  The 
blade  struck  home,  but  not  to  the  heart  of  Calderon.  It  was 
Beatrix,  bathed  in  her  blood,  who  fell  at  the  feet  of  her  frenzied 
lover. 

"*  Daughter  and  mother   both  !  "   muttered  Calderon  ;   and 


50  CALDERON,   THE    COURTIER. 

he  fell,  as  if  the  steel  had  pierced  his  own  heart,  beside  his 
child. 

"  Wretch  !  what  hast  thou  done  ?"  uttered  a  voice  strange 
to  the  ear  of  Fonseca  ;  a  voice  half  stifled  with  horror  and, 
perhaps,  remorse.  The  Prince  of  Spain  stood  on  the  spot,  and 
his  feet  were  dabbled  in  the  blood  of  the  virgin  martyr.  The 
moonlight  alone  lighted  that  spectacle  of  crime  and  death  ;  and 
the  faces  of  all  seemed  ghastly  beneath  its  beams.  Beatrix 
turned  her  eyes  upon  her  lover,  with  an  expression  of  celes- 
tial compassion  and  divine  forgiveness;  then  sinking  upon  Cal- 
deron's  breast,  she  muttered  : 

"  Pardon  him  !  pardon  him,  father  !     I  shall  tell  my  mother 

that  thou  hast  blessed  me  !" 

******* 

It  was  not  for  several  days  after  that  night  of  terror  that 
Calderon  was  heard  of  at  the  court.  His  absence  was  unac- 
countable ;  for,  though  the  flight  of  the  novice  was,  of  course 
known,  her  fate  was  not  suspected  ;  and  her  rank  had  been  too 
insignificant  to  create  much  interest  in  her  escape,  or  much 
vigilance  in  pursuit.  But  of  that  absence  the  courtier's  enemies 
well  availed  themselves.  The  plans  of  the  cabal  were  ripe  ; 
and  the  aid  of  the  Inquisition,  by  the  appointment  of  Aliaga, 
was  added  to  the  machinations  of  Uzeda's  partisans.  The 
King  was  deeply  incensed  at  the  mysterions  absence  of  Calderon, 
for  which  a  thousand  ingenious  conjectures  were  invented. 
The  Duke  of  Lerma,  infirm  and  enfeebled  by  years,  was  unable 
to  confront  his  foes.  With  imbecile  despair  he  called  on  the 
name  of  Calderon  ;  and,  when  no  trace  of  that  powerful  ally 
could  be  discovered,  he  forbore  even  to  seek  an  interview  with 
the  King.  Suddenly  the  storm  broke.  One  evening  Lerma 
received  the  royal  order  to  surrender  his  posts,  and  to  quit  the 
court  by  daybreak.  It  was  in  this  very  hour  that  the  door  of 
Lerma's  chamber  opened,  and  Roderigo  Calderon  stood  before 
him.  But,  how  changed — how  blasted  from  his  former  self  ! 
His  eyes  were  sunk  deep  in  their  sockets,  and  their  fire  was 
quenched  ;  his  cheeks  were  hollow,  his  frame  bent,  and,  when 
he  spoke,  his  voice  was  as  that  of  one  calling  from  the  tomb. 
"  Behold  me,  Duke  de  Lerma,  I  am  returned  at  last  !" 
"  Returned  ! — blessings  on  thee  !  Where  hast  thou  been  ? 
Why  didst  thou  desert  me  ?  No  matter,  thou  art  returned  ! 
Fly  to  the  King — tell  him  I  am  not  old  !  I  do  not  want  repose. 
Defeat  the  villany  of  my  unnatural  son  !  They  would  banish 
me,  Calderon  ;  banish  me  in  the  very  prime  of  my  years  ! 
My  son  says  I  am  old — old  !  ha  !  ha  !  Fly  to  the  Prince  ;  he 


CALUERON,    THE    COURTIER.  $t 

too  has  immured  himself  in  his  apartment.  He  would  not  see 
me  ;  he  will  see  thee !  " 

"  Ay — the  Prince  !     We  have  cause  to  love  each  other  !  " 

"  Ye  have,  indeed  !  Hasten,  Calderon  ;  not  a  moment  is  to 
be  lost  !  Banished  !  Calderon,  shall  I  be  banished  ?  "  And 
the  old  man,  bursting  into  tears,  fell  at  the  feet  of  Calderon, 
and  clasped  his  knees.  "  Go,  go,  I  implore  thee  !  Save  me  ; 
I  loved  thee,  Calderon,  I  always  loved  thee.  Shall  our  foes 
triumph  ?  Shall  the  horn  of  the  wicked  be  exalted  ?" 

For  a  moment  (so  great  is  the  mechanical  power  of  habit) 
there  returned  to  Calderon  something  of  his  wonted  energy 
and  spirit  ;  a  light  broke  from  his  sunken  eyes  ;  he  drew  him- 
self up  to  the  full  of  his  stately  height :  "  I  thought  1  had  done 
with  courts  and  with  life,"  said  he  ;  "  but  I  will  make  one  more 
effort  ;  I  will  not  forsake  you  in  your  hour  of  need.  Yes,  Uzeda 
shall  be  baffled  ;  I  will  seek  the  King.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  fear 
not  ;  the  charm  of  my  power  is  not  yet  broken." 

So  saying,  Calderon  raised  the  Cardinal  from  the  ground, 
and  extricating  himself  from  the  old  man's  grasp,  strode,  with 
his  customary  air  of  majestic  self-reliance,  to  the  door.  Just 
ere  he  reached  it,  three  low,  but  regular,  knocks  sounded  on  the 
panel  :  the  door  opened,  and  the  space  without  was  filled  with 
the  dark  forms  of  the  officers  of  the  Inquisition. 

"  Stand  !"  said  a  deep  voice  ;  "  stand,  Roderigo  Calderon, 
Marquis  de  Siete  Iglesias  ;  in  the  name  of  the  most  Holy 
Inquisition,  we  arrest  thee  !  " 

"  Aliaga  !  "  muttered  Calderon,  falling  back — 

"  Peace  !  "  interrupted  the  Jesuit.  "  Officers,  remove  your 
prisoner." 

"  Poor  old  man,"  said  Calderon,  turning  towards  the  Cardinal, 
who  stood  spellbound  and  speechless,  "thy  life  at  least  is  safe. 
For  me,  I  defy  fate  !  Lead  on  ! " 

The  Prince  of  Spain  soon  recovered  from  the  shock  which 
the  death  of  Beatrix  at  first  occasioned  him.  New  pleasures 
chased  away  even  remorse.  He  appeared  again  in  public  a  few 
days  after  the  arrest  of  Calderon  ;  and  he  made  strong  inter- 
cession on  behalf  of  his  former  favorite.  But  even  had  the 
Inquisition  desired  to  relax  its  grasp,  or  Uzeda  to  forego  his 
vengeance,  so  great  was  the  exultation  of  the  people  at  the  fall 
of  the  dreaded  and  obnoxious  secretary,  and  so  numerous  the 
charges  which  party  malignity  added  to  those  which  truth  could 
lay  at  his  door,  that  it  would  have  required  a  far  bolder  monarch 
than  Philip  III.  to  have  braved  the  voice  of  a  whole  nation  for 


5«  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

the  sake  of  a  disgraced  minister.  The  Prince  himself  was  soon 
induced,  by  new  favorites,  to  consider  any  further  interference 
on  his  part  equally  impolitic  as  vain  ;  and  the  Duke  d'Uzeda 
and  Don  Caspar  de  Guzman  were  minions  quite  as  supple, 
while  they  were  companions  infinitely  more  respectable. 

One  day  an  officer,  attending  the  levee  of  the  Prince,  with 
whom  he  was  a  special  favorite,  presented  a  memorial  request- 
ing the  interest  of  His  Highness  for  an  appointment  in  the 
royal  armies,  that,  he  had  just  learned  by  an  express,  was 
vacant. 

"  And  whose  death  comes  so  opportunely  for  thy  rise,  Don 
Alvar  ?"  asked  the  Infant. 

"  Don  Martin  Fonseca.  He  fell  in  the  late  skirmish,  pierced 
by  a  hundred  wounds." 

The  Prince  started,  and  turned  hastily  away.  The  officer 
lost  all  favor  from  that  hour,  and  never  learned  his  offence. 

Meanwhile  months  passed,  and  Calderon  still  languished  in 
his  dungeon.  At  last  the  Inquisition  opened  against  him  its 
dark  register  of  accusations.  First  of  these  charges  was  that 
of  sorcery,  practised  on  the  King  ;  the  rest  were,  for  the  most 
party,  equally  grotesque  and  extravagant.  These  accusations 
Calderon  met  with  a  dignity  which  confounded  his  foes,  and 
belied  the  popular  belief  in  the  elements  of  his  character.  Sub- 
mitted to  the  rack,  he  bore  its  tortures  without  a  groan  ;  and 
all  historians  have  accorded  concurrent  testimony  to  the  patience 
and  heroism  which  characterized  the  close  of  his  wild  and  me- 
teoric career.  At  length  Philip  III.  died  :  the  Infant  ascended 
the  throne — that  Prince,  for  whom  the  ambitious  courtier  had 
perilled  alike  life  and  soul !  The  people  now  believed  that 
they  should  be  defrauded  of  their  victim.  They  were  mistaken. 
The  new  King,  by  this  time,  had  forgotten  even  the  existence 
of  the  favorite  of  the  Prince.  But  Guzman,  who,  while  affecting 
to  minister  to  the  interests  of  Uzeda,  was  secretly  aiming  at  the 
monopoly  of  the  royal  favor,  felt  himself  insecure  while  Calderon 
yet  lived.  The  operations  of  the  Inquisition  were  too  slow  for 
the  impatience  of  his  fears  ;  and  as  that  dread  tribunal  affected 
never  to  inflict  death  until  the  accused  had  confessed  his  guilt, 
the  firmness  of  Calderon  baffled  the  vengeance  of  the  ecclesi- 
astical law.  New  inquiries  were  set  on  foot :  a  corpse  was  dis- 
covered, buried  in  Calderon's  garden — the  corpse  of  a  female. 
He  was  accused  of  the  murder.  Upon  that  charge  he  was  trans- 
ferred from  the  Inquisition  to  the  regular  courts  of  justice. 
No  evidence  could  be  produced  against  him  :  but,  to  the 
astonishment  of  all,  he  made  no  defence,  and  his  silence  was. 


CALDERON,  THE  COURTIER.  53 

held  the  witness  of  his  crime.  He  was  adjudged  to  the  scaf- 
fold— he  smiled  when  he  heard  the  sentence. 

An  immense  crowd,  one  bright  day  in  summer,  were  as- 
sembled in  the  place  of  execution.  A  shout  of  savage  exulta- 
tion rent  the  air  as  Roderigo  Calderon,  Marquis  de  Siete  Igle- 
sias,  appeared  upon  the  scaffold.  But  when  the  eyes  of  the 
multitude  rested — not  upon  that  lofty  and  stately  form,  in  all 
the  pride  of  manhood,  which  they  had  been  accustomed  to  as- 
sociate with  their  fears  of  the  stern  genius  and  iron  power  of 
the  favorite — but  upon  a  bent  and  spectral  figure,  that  seemed 
already  on  the  verge  of  a  natural  grave,  with  a  face  ploughed 
deep  with  traces  of  unutterable  woe,  and  hollow  eyes  that  looked 
with  dim  and  scarce  conscious  light  over  the  human  sea  that 
murmured  and  swayed  below,  the  tide  of  the  popular  emotion 
changed  ;  to  rage  and  triumph  succeeded  shame  and  pity. 
Not  a  hand  was  lifted  up  in  accusation — not  a  voice  was  raised 
in  rebuke  or  joy.  Beside  Calderon  stood  the  appointed  priest, 
whispering  cheer  and  consolation. 

"  Fear  not,  my  son,"  said  the  holy  man.  "  The  pang  of  the 
body  strikes  years  of  purgatory  from  thy  doom.  Think  of  this, 
and  bless  even  the  agony  of  this  hour." 

•'  Yes  !  "  muttered  Calderon  ;  "  I  do  bless  this  hour.  Inez, 
thy  daughter  has  avenged  thy  murder  !  May  Heaven  accept 
the  sacrifice !  and  may  my  eyes,  even  athwart  the  fiery  gulf, 
awaken  upon  thee  !  " 

With  that  a  serene  and  contented  smile  passed  over  the  face 
on  which  the  crowd  gazed  with  breathless  awe.  A  minute 
more,  and  a  groan,  a  cry,  broke  from  that  countless  multitude ; 
and  a  gory  and  ghastly  head,  severed  from  its  trunk,  was  raised 
on  high. 

Two  spectators  of  that  execution  were  in  one  of  the  balconies 
that  commanded  a  full  view  of  its  terrors. 

"  So  perishes  my  worst  foe  !  "  said  Uzeda. 

"  We  must  sacrifice  all  things,  friends  as  foes,  in  the  ruthless 
march  of  the  Great  Cause,"  rejoined  the  Grand  Inquisitor ; 
but  he  sighed  as  he  spoke. 

"  Guzman  is  now  with  the  King,"  said  Uzeda,  turning  into 
the  chamber.  "  I  expect  every  instant  a  summons  into  the 
royal  presence." 

"  I  cannot  share  thy  sanguine  hopes,  my  son,"  said  Aliaga, 
shaking  his  head.  "  My  profession  has  made  me  a  deep  reader 
of  human  character.  Gasper  de  Guzman  will  remove  every 
rival  from  his  path." 

While  he  spoke,  there  entered  a  gentleman  of  the  royal 


54  CALDERON,    THE    COURTIER. 

chamber.  He  presented  to  the  Grand  Inquisitor  and  the  ex- 
pectant Duke  two  letters  signed  by  the  royal  hand.  They  were 
the  mandates  of  banishment  and  disgrace.  Not  even  the 
ghostly  rank  of  the  Grand  Inquisitor,  not  even  the  profound 
manoeuvres  of  the  son  of  Lerma,  availed  them  against  the  vigi- 
lance and  vigor  of  the  new  favorite.  Simultaneously,  a  shout 
from  the  changeable  crowd  below  proclaimed  that  the  King's 
choice  of  his  new  minister  was  published  and  approved. 

And  Aliaga  and  Uzeda  exchanged  glances  that  bespoke  all 
the  passions  that  make  defeated  ambition  the  worst  fiend,  as 
they  heard  the  mighty  cry,  "LONG  LIVE  OLIVAREZ  THE  RE- 
FORMER !  " 

That  cry  came,  faint  and  muffled,  to  the  ears  of  Philip  IV., 
as  he  sate  in  his  palace  with  his  new  minister. 

"Whence  that  shout?"  said  the  King  hastily. 

"  It  rises,  doubtless,  from  the  honest  hearts  of  your  loyal 
people  at  the  execution  of  Calderon." 

Philip  shaded  his  face  with  his  hand,  and  mused  a  moment : 
then,  turning  to  Olivarez  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  he  said  : 
"  Behold  the  moral  of  the  life  of  a  courtier,  Count  ! — What  do 
they  say  of  the  new  opera.?" 

At  the  close  of  his  life,  in  disgrace  and  banishment,  the 
Count-duke,  for  the  first  time  since  they  had  been  uttered, 
called  to  his  recollection  those  words  of  his  royal  master.* 

*  The  fate  of  Calderon  has  given  rise  to  many  tales  and  legends.  Amongst  those  who 
nave  best  availed  themselves  of  so  fruithful  a  subject  may  be  ranked  the  late  versatile  and 
ingenious  Telesforo  de  Trueba,  in  his  work  on  "  The  Romance  of  Spain."  In  a  few  of 
the  incidents,  and  in  some  of  the  names,  his  sketch,  called  "  The  Fortunes  of  Calderon," 
has  a  resemblance  to  the  story  just  concluded.  The  plot,  characters,  and  principal  events 
are,  howevtr,  widely  distinct  in  our  several  adaptations  of  an  ambiguous  and  unsatisfactory 
portion  of  Spanish  history. 


THE  END. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

305  De  Neve  Drive  -  Parking  Lot  17  •  Box  951388 

LOS  ANGELES,  CALIFORNIA  90095-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library  from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


